In All That I Am

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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