My reflection has a petty face
When scars undo in front of me
Derisive in an ugly chain
Of lesser biting insults
Abuse me, take me seriously
Be curious, and unravel shades
Of hideous, beaten reds and blues
That mock and break and shame me
Then see a crooked seedling flow
Inside my mental illness veins
And hear me scream still flummoxing
For you to take me carefully.
I struggle. But it is what it is.
Reasons why I’m not a poet:
a) Words are so, so hard. In ten minutes.