I want to watch it run, feel it soak through my outstretched fingers.
Watch it drip onto the floor.
If it’s deep enough maybe I could write with it
like finger paint.
But what would I say? I’m sorry?
But if I was sorry, would I be doing this?
Beautiful irony likes to spin a twisted tale in my brain,
of how I was never meant to come this far anyway.
My dreams, my goals, my life, just wasn’t meant to be.
So I will smear more paint and keep writing. Always.
I’ll speak of loyalty, of trust, of love and despair.
I'll speak of everything I was meant to stay silent about.
With my scarlet finger paint.
I just hope you understand how to read the story.
**Please, please, please, if you are struggling with self worth or self harm, do not feel like you have to go through it alone. I promise you there will always be better days, as my character in the poem proclaimed, 'But I Am Still Here.' It may not seem like it, but I'm begging you to find something worth living one more day for, one more sunrise, one more face lick from your dog, one more new song by your favorite artist, or even one more episode of your favorite TV show. Breathe, sweetheart, life happens. Sometimes it throat punches you on your worst day, but those days are what makes you grateful for the sunshine. <3