Not a poem II. A story? But not...

The silver, fragile, sharp. Like the life it took. She was small, sensitive. Brilliant. They cut her with her tounges. She cut with the silver. The thin strip, placed to her wrist. Solace. "Just once more" she says before she drifts off to that state of mind. That sick state of mind. That only the most brilliant of minds can ever seem to endure. Her blood, the darkest of reds, seeps through the opening in her skin. Puts it to her lips. Memories. Of a man. That man. Downstairs. Saying "daddy would never hurt you." and had his way. With that seven year old. Memories. Of that women. "Mommy are you sick?" says that nine year old. Thats the only reason she could think of for why mommy was was putting a needle in her arm. Memories. Of that boy, "Baby, I love you." he said. They went there. "You meant nothing. Stop calling me." he says through a phone to that 16  year old. That hurt 16 year old. That 16 year old... The silver is her afro disiac, her high. Her help. The hugs that never happpened. The birthdays that were forgotten. She looks  in the mirror. Blood and tears. She puts the silver in the drawer for another night. Represses the memories. She hears him calling.

  "Coming daddy..."