The Diaries

The Diaries

I started scribbling the words of my mind at thirteen.

Three diaries filled with frenzied screams:

one made of shedded skin, held closed by a withered string;

one velvet-covered with worn-out ends;

and the third — touching it felt like a sin.

My eyes scan the first page as I try to read,

but I feel my gums begin to bleed.

The words taste like metallic seeds,

growing their own weeds.

Stop, my tongue wanted to plead.

Now pages have inked blood next to words spitting abusive greed.

As my eardrums explode before they can hear another word it had to grieve.

Even my lashes turn to sharp blades,

stabbing my pupils for my vision to fade.

Salted tears could never be of aid.

In my own autonomy, I no longer know how to persuade.

My lungs fill with burning rage.

Nostrils drip ash…

my inner cremation was the wage.