Harboring denial in every crevice
of her skin, similar to weeds seeping...
She sits in her room debating whether she releases...
or end this whole thing with a gun...
When I go to sleep, a sheet
of paper threatens my throat...
You call yourself a mother,
a person that loves and nurtures...
My scars tell a story
they tell you my pain...
Crackles, shackles
of hardwood creepers...
Every cut tells a story
Every cut ends a life...
I have been wearing
the perfume of our past on my skin...
Take a look at me now
Who I am...
This is wrong.
What am I doing...
She stares back
The face of a stranger...
I am done
I quit...