The Cage

There are only some things time can heal.
The others will have to form nasty scars, coming up only to froth or bubble every once in a while.
That's why she's so scared
to open this book,
spill her thoughts onto paper.

She might get a glace at her past.
See those months like torture enter her head
and make a nest there.
Her room has become a grim reminder of daily torture.
Waking to the sun,
spending hours wasting time,
Watching the clock
tick
by slower
and slower
waiting
for time to pass
or wounds to heal
or freedom to come.
They all traveled at the same pace:
painfully
slow.

So she lives in fear and avoids her past.
It's not so much resent at her actions, no.
Those only made her euphoric, bringing her higher and higher up,
ready to crash down through the atmosphere and hit earth—HARD.

Rather, she hates her pain—the deep ripping of the fibers of her spirit,
slow agony,
and the unforgettable stomach





drop.

When her lunch plummeted to earth 5,000 miles an hour.
"Alexa and I hooked up."
Knife to the stomach.
Knife
after
knife
after
knife.
Twisted blade.
Leave her alone to bleed out.
Once she's drained of blood, splattered on the street like a suicide bomber,
nobody wants to touch her.
They walk by, whistling a cheery tune.
And so she has to wait.
Just wait.
Maybe for someone to release her broken heart,
Just let her escape.
Maybe for someone to piece her back together,
sewing together the many vacant cavities.
Start over again,
escape.
And this time, quit peeking into your past.
Quit being so fragile.