Never do I sleep.
I'm sick of the reoccurring nightmares
that combine reality with the truth -
leaving my mind in turmoil.
Yet I know I am weak when I am awake,
when flashes of the night before start a growth in my mind -
it becomes terminal.
I grew tired of regaining my memory
when it was so out o my control.
It would often start to show on my skin,
a dangerous method for the mind to process
the painful fears and unwanted memories.
People tried to convince me that I wasn't guilty,
but they were quick to change their minds
when they saw the scars left by memories
which remained upon my skin -
representing a life written in secrets;
a story told in blood and scars.
If only you could see into the open wounds
and look at what you have done.
I wonder if you will ever know the reason that you became so hollow,
like your heart was never home.
I wonder when you realised that you were born wicked.
