I am a thought,

Stained like ink in the darkest corner of your mind,

You are the bruises and scars on my skin,

I am a butterfly imprisoned in the glass of a stained glass window,

Nobody cares enough to notice me in my prison, in my hell,

I am just another of the names inked upon you,

Another long-forgottten 'angel,'

Who is now nothing but a scar,

A scar of the creature she used to be.

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed