Her fingers splay out like roots on the bright white sheets,
yanking at the
yellowing tubes that
bloom like broken flowers from her arms,
gently covering the parade of scars that
chop at her wrists.
In the corner, I wallow in my own unblemished skin,
wishing that I could
bear the blunt
of her axe, that
my own life
could be cut away
so that hers might
grow again.
yanking at the
yellowing tubes that
bloom like broken flowers from her arms,
gently covering the parade of scars that
chop at her wrists.
In the corner, I wallow in my own unblemished skin,
wishing that I could
bear the blunt
of her axe, that
my own life
could be cut away
so that hers might
grow again.
