Of Wrongs and Rights

She felt as though her ribs had shattered
Into a million shark-teeth
That were slowly sinking
Into her ravaged heart
That someone had squeezed
Into a pulp, a bloody, messy pulp
That could be rotting away
Into a stinking bitterness
That smelled pungent, boring
Into her flaring nostrils
That made her eyes pour
Into a tear-stained pillow
That lay beneath her throbbing head.

They said what she felt was wrong

Simply because,
She didn't have the right. 

To and From

I run,

Mostly from things.

I run from people, lest I bump into someone
and hurt them,
Or, get hurt.

I run from responsibilities, lest they become
nothing but an anglomeration
Of burdens and liabilities.

I run from love, lest
It happened to me.

But all I wanted was to run to something,
That something being something like you.

Blood-shot

Pick that almost healed scab.

Ask not what caused it.

You know you want it to bleed once more.

A pinprick of scarlet swelling into a pool.

And then running  red furrows down your skin.

Warm and sticky and icky.

Watch the patterns it makes.

Oozing.

Let it spill and drip and slip.

Count the minutes until it stops.

By itself.

You'll do it again.

Because you can't cry.