Stains

Scars have never been gracefully placed on my heart.

They’ve been forcefully shoved in,

twisting and turning as they pierce the innocence

of my love.

The blood pouring from my chest

as tears flood my eyes.

The voice I once used for pure speech,

now defiled with filth and agony.

The hands that once held the most delicate flower,

clenched tightly around barb-wired roses.

Every hand that carasses my body,

holds a sharp knife

and drags down my body

like an animal carcass.

My body has said “I love you”

more times than my heart has.

Despair and love

are one in the same.

I do not know how to love

purely anymore.

Every kiss, every hug,

every sweet moment

comes with a condition.

It never comes with the intent to love,

but the intent to shape

what I have to offer

into something

I don’t recognize.

I don’t recognize myself

anymore.

I see my heart on the shelf,

collecting dust and nesting spiders

that crawl over the veins

and devour what little remains.

I look in the mirror one last time,

seeing the tear stains on my cheeks.

Who am I anymore?