Nobody sees.
They all stare,
And point,
And occasionally laugh.
But they don’t see.
Not until I pick up a pen and
Write.
A inky paintbrush poised above my
Paper heart.
They never ask “are you
Ok?”
Not until I pick up a pen and
Write.
They don’t like my little ink paintings, my
Creations in chaos.
They hold my paper heart gingerly, like something that just
Might be toxic.
They reply in ‘um’s and
‘oh’s and
‘this is…uh…nice’ s.
They can’t stomach the person my
Paintings depict.
She’s hideous, I know.
So I show instead her thoughts, her bloody
Heart, an empty twin of my
Paper wasteland.
Her thoughts look simple, and strange. They’re all made
Up of a few themes.
Less, more, don’t.
They look like
The curve of a rib
The shadow of a collarbone
The trail of one
Corrosive tear that washed
All her happiness away,
And one red line that
Made the pain in her heart spread
Through her brain
And across her skin.
Personally, I agree.
She’s not very pretty.
Definitely not perfect enough to show.
But I understand her, and she gets me.
Nobody can know her, though.
If they found out, all my work would crumble like a house of
Crying cards.
I’ve put in too much effort, too much
Pain, too many
Teary, sleepless nights
To lose it all now.
So nobody ever sees our heart…
Not until I pick up a pen
And write.