Guilt is a Terrible Thing.

I feel bad for basically using this as a duller version of a diary. I'm aware that most bloggers DO, but I honestly didn't set out to be this apathetic. SO. I wrote this as prose, but it reads well as poetry. And everyone knows pretentious bloggers write poetry, right?


Madeline sits on the bed.
She's very real, and close, and silent.
She has a livid red blotch
On her back from the scratch and grate
Of stubble between her shoulder blades,
And the inside of her thighs sulk
With purple, yellow, black and blue bruises,
Some like fingermarks, others not.
A thin white scar,
As if from a knife wound,
Snakes from between her breasts to her navel.
It not an old scar; it shimmers silver against her jaundiced frame.
I can trace her bones through translucent skin,
See the skeleton rising up through living flesh to greet me.


I like the word skeleton.