universal
her eyes closed; her heart broken:
there she lies on the bed
wishing this would all melt away.
she can watch her tears dry.
but when her blood falls it leaves a stain.
she can turn her head:
movement, breaking one thousand glances,
but she can’t break the sting of this disease.
sickness is her friend
a held hand while she’s dying inside.
her facade of emotion : unfaltering.
while externally, manually controlled knives intentionally falter;
shattering once-like-porcelain skin.
she thinks that this is comfort.
there’s solace in the pain
she writes this off as normal–
an everyday break from an everyday pain
–and you can’t make this feeling for her,
you only control her mental agony.
when she feels the familiar pain,
that sting of flesh tearing,
she’s in control of everything.
and that’s a wonderful way to feel.