I am the sorrow –
that burns from the very core of your soul.
Told in whispers to close friends,
who tightly hold to your

The bruises in between your knuckles,
do they ask who kisses them at night?
Or perhaps they ask about the girl –
you know the one you hit at night?
Behind locked doors, under the false note
of a loud boom box.
They can't hear her scream (nevermore.)
They can't hear her cry. (Say no more.)

Couldn't possibly know,
between the pile of lies on your plate –
the guilt on your hands.
Her blood, on your hands.
Secrets tightly locked between the thin
line of a beautiful (horrible) smile.

I've seen that smile,
thousands of times.
Tell them, it hisses –
tell them everything is fine.
I repeat it like a mocking bird.

Truths nearly escaping
from the gaps between my teeth.
I ache from your lies –
not the bruises, nor the blood.
Nor –
Flash! Of good memories I can't recall.

Open the doors, Open the doors –
Rage controls you, it's inside you.
Heartbeat. Quickens.
Not your fault. Not your fault.
Blood on your hands. Not her blood.
Not her blood.

Smeared on your bedroom walls –
it wasn't your fault, not your fault.

Please, God, Please.
Open the doors.
But – it's too late now,
I don't exist anymore.