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I write for the hole in my side,
that my feelings would leak out of otherwise.
I write for the bullet wound between my eyes
That erased the memories I had,
and all the lies.
I write for the bruised knees
and broken feet,
that carried me all the way home.
I write for the arthritis fingers that already
lost all feeling.
I write for the cold feet,
broken dreams,
and unheard wishes
that burned my throat as they left.
I write for the chapped lips
that whisper, ?I?m fine.?
I write for the cracked teeth and dry tongue
choking on my own practiced lines.
I write for the hangnails on every finger
pulled off to see the blood.
I write for the galaxy bruises,
because I am bigger than myself.
I write for the knife sharp collarbones
that don?t believe in second chances.
I write for the frostbite toes
And the fact that no body knows how much it hurts.
I write for the white lines that riddle my thighs
that no longer sting in the shower.
I write because maybe,
things will get better.
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