She told me that
words used to burn her,
and she would cling onto the
hope of it ending one day.
Her hands showed the
pain and the way she used
to beat herself against the
wall,
and call herself names.
I watched her pick the grass
one day and thread it
between her hands
as if it was sand.
So fragile and delicate.
The way she spoke reminded
me of silk, and how
my throat used to dry
when I found myself
wanting to cry.
Her writing was bleak
and cold,
and I found her trying
to unfold the screwed
up dribble.
My hands found hers
as we entwined
and found our common
ground.
One day, I clawed
my way up a mountain,
but she never followed.
The world had
swallowed her whole
and engulfed
her life.
I remembered the way
she always smiled,
and clung onto
something….
anything she could find.
Her eyes revealed
her sadness and the
life she’d had.
I tried to pull her
out of the darkest sea,
but it was never meant
to be.
She drowned in her
fears,
and in a river of
her tears.
She told me that she
wasn’t afraid to die,
and it was a welcome
gift.
LegallyFierceFeminist 