What do you know about the way my heart was stamped on by a 12cm stiletto heel?
Played with like a rubber band to see how far it’d stretch,
Shredded against a grater, the blood juice used to stain my bones scarlet.
What do you know about the flood of tears that painted my cheeks,
Making the kind of salted caramel no one would have wanted,
Because who eats sorrow for dessert?
What do you know about the way angels hurled me into hell
Of sizzling flames that seared me into steak, well-done,
The charred walls I touched that melted away my fingerprints.
What do you know about my screams at night, when even owls had retired,
When I almost choked on my pillow, feathers frothing in my mouth,
Until all the Strepsils in the world couldn’t have fixed my mangled vocal cords.
What do you know about my scars?
They’re thin lines now, like fine hairs embedded in china,
Almost passing as natural wear and tear,
But what do you know about the time they blared,
Wrathful, vermilion; nitid, but not in a glamorous way,
A collection of collagen that didn’t bring youth to my skin?
Really, what do you know?