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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

You tremble,

no thread between your


composed entirely of

closed fists

held to pressed-together



You spill blood

like cheap nail polish

as you pull yourself up,


gripping between ribs to

find stability.

Your teeth find a meal in

your mouth,

forcing acid-soaked words



a scream-stripped throat.

Those lips should’ve been

pried open long ago,

before you learned to take

a punch,

before you learned to love

the taste of dirt.

Submitted: November 05, 2020

© Copyright 2020 D.J. Hawkins. All rights reserved.

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Poem / Poetry