Sarah's "secret" Poems

Maybe people can see the insult of dyke written across your forehead or psyche.

Some days I am perfect. Not a flaw  even in those that could be. Some days I am broken. Every bit wrong even in those that aren’t.  Some days I fail to even exist.

I wish to slow down time. Maybe even make it stop. Because despite this smile, I’m not ready. For anything.

I’ve grown accustomed to picking myself apart. Bitting lips till bloody. Picking at scalp till bloody. I bath in red. Only satisfied when sipping on copper. Compete in the pinpricks of pain. No need for bandaid. They make wounds obvious. Scratching till they bleed, doesn’t. Maybe tomorrow I’ll finally be bloody enough.  Though I guess, not.  For what would my hands do otherwise?

Lets go back to first page, book one. You’ve read  it too often, already. Look at new hate, this lost love. New favorite. Or at least new least favorite.

Lately I find myself slipping into new self. Never before seen footage. It’s funny, how quickly my body finds herself. How fingers just know exactly where. How favorite hairbrush is always close by. I count seconds  till school ends. Seconds till I’m home alone. It doesn’t matter if I’m fully alone. Sometimes it’s better if I’m not. Lately I can’t  find myself enough to care. Leaving stain in my wake. Just clean up like I wasn’t there. I never was meant for this. It’s too late to change.

I’ve been trying to be better. Prepare myself. Stop cursing. Using backwards peace instead of middle finger.  Guess what. I’m done. So fuck you. Middle finger far more then prepared. Because you are a waste. A lier. A cheat. Waste of money, space, time. I’m done. Can’t breath. Guess what. I don’t care  to be better. Why should I. When you wasted anything we had.

When it snows sit by a window. Watch as the fluff spins and swirls. Speeds up and slows down. Sit in your warm house. Imagine. How closed off you are. How safe. How untouchable. You are snow globe. The little people stuck in a story. The happy smiling faces. From the children's tales you once told. The snow speeds up. Some child must be telling the same stories. The snow slows down. Maybe the child is board. They put you down, walked away. Sit by a window. So someday, someone, takes notice. Someday, the snow will swirl again.

Cut me adrift to set me apart. Cut me apart to shape me anew. But there's a problem this final problem. Too many. Every soul already adrift. There's never room for me.

My hairdresser died. Today. Or last night. It all depends on the question asked. When he died? When I found out? Either way my heart didn't bother skipping a beat. Death is natural. My normal. "Oh good you're not dead." Answer when friend returns. Because death doesn't last. Can't last forever. Unless of course it does.