On my Wrist

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.