My Wrists Tell My Story

As polite as can be,

They all ask how I am.

And just as politely,

With a tug of my sleeves

Or a shift of my bracelets,

I reply that I'm fine.

But my hidden wrists say something else.

The hatching and criss-crossing

Across the once-smooth skin

Portray a story of hatred,

Not for them but myself.

And if only they could see them,

They would know that I'm not fine

And maybe I need someone

To break that politeness

And see me for what I am.

 

Author's Note

It's kind of gross and rough but I guess it'll do.

Reviews

[Stabitha]

I identify with this 100%.

[A. V. Madison]

I love the imagery, the darkness of this. It brings it to life.
Magical, great work darling.