On my wrist Rests a tight sharp thorn band.
It scratches and leaves rows of scarlet streaks
It wraps around the petite structure below my bony hand
And digs deeply into my thin skin.
On my waist Lays a tight nailed belt
It punctures wells into my sides that all stay dry
A ribbon that ties a bow underneath my skin cased ribs
And squeezes my thin lungs so my breath stays shy.
On my brain
Sits a toxic pill
It drills into me the truth, and knows that I’m not ill
It knows all and it knows better, “wither away my dear.”
And knows that this is the best in my life that I will ever feel.