Written age 15.
I'm sick of the lie, that pushes through my bare freckled skin, my brittle ribs, straight to my dead heart that contracts and streches to fit something it doesnt wish to encompess.
It flows through my veins to my hands, makes them weak, makes me cling for strength, for support
It pulses down my legs, makes me fall to my knees, holds me to something i detest.
It stretches across my neck, a liars lips raising hate through goosebumps on the ice lake's surface.
You take my forearm in your hand and you press down, you stop the blood so that you can take my numbness and lead me into the dark.
Do you know It dances on your tongue?
A spinning needle pulling in and out of my skin. Threads that unravel and loose themselves around my body.
My bones, they bend to accomodate your presence, and I walk three paces behind you.
Then my shins crack, my shoulders break.
My spine unlocks and I'm slumped, trapped.
Bound to the ground where you stand, I hear you clearly
laugh and leave.