The ropes tied around my tongue
cannot be seen, cannot be reached.
The regressive pull of the stabbed
memories cannot be staged, cannot be watched.
The unending feeling of choking inside
with a smile all over my face,
cannot be expressed, cannot be shown.
If I become inside-out,
the scars would seem countless,
decorated all beneath my skin
and deep in my flesh & bones,
some of which are
too fresh that the pain oozes out
like the blood from deep cut wounds.
"How wrecked are you", they ask?
If only my words could scream, it would.
If only my body could flame, it would.
If only my mind could stop and desolate, it would.
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