An apology from the already dead

Copyright, Raze

The knife dances along my skin,
digging deeper (but not deep enough)
tracks and paths into my tortured past.

they can never know,
so I hide the red hate with smiles and fake laughter.

“you’re my pretty little whore”
was all he ever said to me.

Instead of lollipops and gold stars,
I remember secret meanings and hidden hands.

I scratch at the skin.
The filthy skin.
He made me unclean.
No…I made myself unclean.

It doesn’t matter anymore.
Because the blood doesn’t care.
as it flows in a steady fall down my arm and…
unto the freshly scrubbed carpet.
Another thing I can’t do right.

I’m sorry mom and dad.
I’m sorry I can’t be normal.
I’m sorry the man next door killed your little girl,
and replaced her with something hideous.
I’m sorry I can’t tell you why I cry at night,
and why I wear so many bracelets.

But most of all, I’m sorry I can’t free you.
I’m sorry I’m not strong enough,
to push the knife in far enough to…


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