Blood is Just the Beginning

I’m melting

But others cannot see “it” this way

They can’t see my surface cracks, so carefully hidden

My surface cracks…blood is only the tip of this iceberg

What flows from the core comes from a much deeper place than my veins

Is it cold?

Is it hot?

It is thick?

Or does it easily trickle?

Does it stain?

Does that bother you?

At least “IT” exists

Scars.

Battle wounds.

Proof that I’ve felt something.

Anything.

This reconstruction cannot be expressed through mere words

like

“sorrow”

“anger”

“hopeless”

can’t compare

to feeling dead.

Lifeless.

Life —> less.

When the flowing stops

My core and surface resettle

Long after I’m dead

I will be seen with great horror and judgmental glares

“How could (s)he?!” the people exclaim

But where were you when it could have been stopped?

What were you doing when I was having a bad day?

Why were you a fair-weather friend when you knew I was hurting and reaching out?

There are ALWAYS signs.

And you missed them.

So look at me and feel the scars on your own conscience.

Because long after I’m dead,

a marked-up exterior will remain — literally

to be seen

It represents everything inside that can’t ever be.

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