She Told Me (Spoken Word)

She told me that

words used toΒ burn her,

and she would cling onto the

hope of it ending one day.

Her hands showed the

pain and the way she used

to beat herself against the

wall,

and call herself names.

I watched her pick the grass

one day and thread it

between her hands

as if it was sand.

So fragile and delicate.

The way she spoke reminded

me of silk, and how

my throat used to dry

when I found myself

wanting to cry.

Her writing was bleak

and cold,

and I found her trying

to unfold the screwed

up dribble.

My hands found hers

as we entwined

and found our common

ground.

One day, I clawed

my way up a mountain,

but she never followed.

The world had

swallowed her whole

and engulfed

her life.

I remembered the way

she always smiled,

and clung onto

something….

anything she could find.

Her eyes revealed

her sadness and the

life she’d had.

I tried to pull her

out ofΒ the darkest sea,

but it was never meant

to be.

She drowned in her

fears,

 

and in a river of

her tears.

She told me that she

wasn’t afraid to die,

and it was a welcome

gift.

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