Posted in Poems

Mend My Wrists

You asked me how I knew
About that certain secretive secret
You queried if I knew
About those other hidden concealments
I replied with a simple “It’s written upon your wrists.”
To which your thoughts flared angrily
As you unknowingly clenched your fists
“I’m sorry,” I said, leaning back in my chair.
“But I request that you cease, in fact, I insist.
Your life is not your own, as you wish not to exist.
For when looking in the mirror, your beauty you resist.
I know why you do this. It’s not out of spite.
You do this because others seem to take delight
in taking your heart and attempting to rewrite
your true, lovely image of angelic light.
You are no longer you.
For others have set you askew.
And with each passing day,
you become old as fades away the new.
Don’t cover your wrists, it’s alright, I know.
You died long ago and this body is just a show.
You can drop the acting.
It’s fine, calm down.
For you remain just as attracting
as the old you I knew.”
The words wouldn’t come to you, only would the tears
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been as direct
But I do not know as you’ve been dead for years
I won’t go over those details again
I only request that my heart you mend


I'm a writer, filmmaker, and Human. I think...

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