Yours

If it makes you so unhappy why do you let them do it?
Run a wrist down the side of your waist let it stop,
stop
crying,
(it makes it seem like you’re lying),
 stiff upper lip –
keep tight, keep your mouth closed,
it is not theirs to open.

Your body is yours,
so why does it feel as if your insides are filled,
with the hands of the universe?
and a ticking clock for a heartbeat?
Waiting to set off the alarm to tell people that they can have a free feed.

Your strings are attached to so many different brains
you no longer have one of your own,
stretched out of shape,
soft,
and selfish.
You’ve thought of nothing but your own skin for days on end,
and how many times you can cut it
before it rips open completely,
letting out the marbles that once lived in your now empty skull.

Sometimes,
you think about sewing yourself back up
and pouring the marbles down your throat
but every time you do,
someone quickly fills your veins with
hungry flies and
sews your mouth shut so you’re no longer you
until you let them out again.

Right now, your skin is red-raw.
A picnic blanket of infested sandwiches and oozing juice.
Cover it with a thick layer of grass,
and dirt,
and fallen leaves,
and nasty, nasty thoughts
and poems to hide the stench of
unhappy and
imperfection.
Hide your ugly face.
With a layer of smiles,
and a kind voice,
just to fool the world into thinking
that it’s fine
for them to rest their hands on your open wounds
and private poems.