told

 

 

 

 

 

I’m not

the hard edge,

rough

fight streets type of girl

poetry bleeding

through scars,

left teeth

bared

in snarls, protecting

the core of self…

but

I do have them,

scars, bruises

names

cut across heart

fucked up dreams

that leaves

me

curled in little balls –

I won’t tell you

what you

want

to get what you

don’t have

stifling screams

of see me now, now

this way

standing in front,

broken mirrors

do tell tales