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.
JustCallMeTaco 