I haven't wrote poems in like months. So here it goes. Gulp
My index finger of flesh and bones
Slides down from my forearm to my wrist.
A place of which my younger self
Spent countless days trapped within.
With Metal blades that held against,
And blood and tears to wash out the pain,
Day in and day out, my younger self,
Could not scrub the stains.
It started out as a secret hiding spot
When life got too much to bear
She would fold herself in, tucked out of sight
But soon the door locked tight
An underground tunnel to feel safe
became a suffocating cave
One day she escaped, I don’t know how
A mystery before my eyes
So now I try to understand
Through clues she left behind
The warmth of my touch an attempt to love
This damaged and dead skin back to life
But as the pointer finger glares and scolds
I shake my head with such disgrace and shame
I cringe at such an ugly blob of nothingness
I am full of scorn and hate
My younger self made use of her space
The cave walls was her canvas
She engraved with sharp tools
She planted pieces of her broken heart
And fragments of her tortured soul she did paste
This was her way of documenting memories of her life
Of the struggles and wars she fought with her mind
These marks are definitely from the battlefield
But there are no statues or monuments built
For there was no glory nor riches gained
And there was no hero to celebrate
Instead these marks resemble ancient ruins
Languages and messages to be deciphered
Stories that tell why she hurried to vanish from existence
I am getting to know my younger self
Through the clues and messages she has left for me
Like a bird following breadcrumbs; I follow
Wishing I had someone to guide me
To this day these walls hold bits and shards
I can see my reflection in the glass.
My younger self needed to express
The stories of her past.
Every seven years skin recreates
What an opportunity to start fresh
I want to believe I have a chance at life
But while these scars may fade on my skin
It will forever be etched in the walls of my mind
So now my index finger leans back on my lips,
Giving a soft little hush
My forearm is put away into my long sleeves
The book of my scars come to a close
People pass me not knowing what I carry along
Like a suitcase of diaries packed in the depth of my forearm.