you can't fill these cracks in me with cement or plasterMature

You can’t fill these cracks in me with cement or plaster

or good intentions and there’s nothing to be done about

the earthquakes that routinely disrupt this rubble that’s left.

This blood is not on your hands.  You can wrap me up

in bandages and cinch together my frayed edges with your

stitches but it doesn’t mean I’m healed just because

you’ve staunched the bleeding.  I’ve been a train wreck

since my daddy left, since my mother told me little girls

don’t cry over bad blood and dark hearts.  What am I

when these tears just won’t stop and I’ve filled up oceans

with the pain it’s caused me but in the morning she says

"good morning, my little girl" and I harbor these secrets

like bullets in my mouth.  They taste like copper and

horror and I think I’ve had them there my whole life,

clenched between my grinding teeth while I sleep and

dream these nightmarish things.

The End

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