I felt the roughness of my hands
across my skin.

My touch was as cold as the night.

A bright white light, a deafening ringing.

I stumbled to the sink and held it to
anchor my shaken self.

In the mirror above it, I see a blur.

I make out patches on my
face—patches of red that sting.

The silence was disrupted
by my own pathetic whimpers.

In my bareness, I stood still.

The sensation slowly wears away,

much like my sanity.

I am not ready to
love anyone else

when I have yet to
learn to love myself.

Teach me
how to be
beautiful.

On his lips, the taste of alcohol.

On his fingers, the scent of tobacco.

He is happy then.

Wrought iron gate, rusty and unyielding.

Over the fence lies a path, created by overgrown
shrubs that line the sides of the soil.

A fog lingers at the end of the trail in the distance.

It does not take much effort to hurdle the fence.

The smell of the soil permeates the cool air
and the ground below my feet, soft.

Past the fog, a beautiful garden is unveiled—
one not seen by many.

A secret garden.

The grass is strewn with withering white flowers
that had fallen from the old hawthorn tree.

Bushes of roses, tenderly pruned, surround
the modest garden.

Butterflies flutter from flower to flower ever so
gracefully—as if performing a dance recital,
choreographed by nature, for the lone spectator
in the garden.

The playful chirps of sparrows could be made out.

Tranquility.

Running my hand through the bush, I hoped to pick
out a stalk of rose of the brightest red.

There it is—behind a foliage of dull green.

As I wrap my hand around it, I feel the flesh of my finger
being pierced open, a part of the flower now wedged into it.

I remove my hand from the bush and watch as the
wound oozes out a substance, red, thick and opaque.

I walk to the tree and lay sprawled beneath it.

My blood trickles onto the delicate grass under my hand.

Eyes shut, I begin to drift into a deep slumber as I think about how

even the most beautiful things can be deadly.

My mind is an ocean

and I am drowning.