If I could draw a blade across my wrist
to show you that my veins clog
with the sludge of ugliness, you would
never again ask me,
“Why are you so tired?”
If I could crack open my skull
to free my mind, you would
see that it is not splintered
by madness but rather patched
together with clarity, you would
never again ask me
to swallow poison.
If I could rip this body open
to show you the raw red wounds
that have been lashed onto my soul
by every inhumane atrocity
this world has endured, you would
never again ask me,
“Why are you so sad?”
Instead, your accusing eyes demand
simple words to simpler questions that
the simplest minds can process.
And in all that I am,
simple I am not.
© Nicole Lyons 2016
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