written By
I am scar bound,
this is nothing new.
I can slit my throat a thousand times
and continue to choke.
People will stand in awe
as I try to wrap my throat.
Each time I can never contain the blood,
so the liquid plasters my fingers.
It is foreign, it has become a stranger.
Yet every time, I feel no danger . . .
I lick my wounds
in hopes to save her.
It is a caustic scene
— and they’re all still watching.
I’ll play along,
we’ll create a tune,
that creates a song.
They lack harmony
and I feel like the drums
in the background,
keeping the beat.
And they’ll tell me I’m wrong
because there’s blood on my thumbs.
The same thumbs that patch me.
The only thing keeping me breathing.
