No point in hiding the self-inflicted bruises.
Take a walk, a third walk around the block.
No point in touching someone else,
Stop stop the thoughts won’t stop.
No point in talk, analysis,
this heart will hurt this heart so hurts.
Born without delivery.
Fostered by a ghost.
Memories of Christmas on a hot day in July,
but impossible to restore.
I am just a helpless schoolgirl,
drawing a heart around a name on the cover of my binder,