A Wronged Soul

A bruise is how the body remembers it has been wronged.

The hands that spread across
my neck and the handprints
that have stained me will soon
start to define me.

I will continuously wipe
sorrow off my face only
for my hands to be smeared
with blood.

I will roll my eyes
back once my head hits
the bed due to the
recollection that
lives in my head.

My stomach will start to disappear
and my body will
cave in
forming a bowl that would
collect the water, I refused
to drink.

However, there is nothing that
leaves you as thirsty as hate.
The more I drink, the
more I long for it.
The more I scream for it.

Darkness has overcome me.
It has become my second skin.
I claw at it furiously
only to have scars that could
be mistaken for tattoos.

It has come to the point that
the pain that spreads across my
soul has started to spread
across the body that holds it.

There is nothing more frightening
than a soul remembering
that it has been wronged.

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