A vulnerable piece of writing. It was written several years ago amid a mental health crisis. Now reading it, it feels self-indulgent.

In Memory of Innocence

They marveled, 
huddling together, 
animated whispers, 
how easily she bleeds!

she feels she loves,
she desires,
she risks, 
but oh, how easily she bleeds!

she stumbles, 
she stutters,  
she forgets,
but oh, how easily she bleeds!

Spilling, splashing, dripping,
messily, upon the floor. 
The hurting, the shame, the ugliness.
All of it.

The true nature of her heart.
Chest open, heart beating, hope bleeding,
exposing, knowing, laughing
at her flaws.
 
Her softest parts, her tender
and hurting parts.
Her entirety
all of it.

The fresh and pulsating wounds,
the sad and tired scars.
Her wanting, her need

ready to be dissected,
ready to be examined,
ready to be probed,
In the name of healing.

by thoughtless hands,
pulling, yanking, tearing,
all her remaining parts
carelessly splayed out.

Humiliated
Hope is a void and empty place.
Fixers, helpers, healers, lovers, 
Gone without a trace.

On a cold slab, awaiting.
Pieces of damaged flesh,
foul and rotting.
Soul, absconding.

They marveled at her failure to live,
her failure to breathe,
her failure to be.
but they marveled most
at how easily she bled.

*I kind of hate this poem. It feels rather self-indulgent.