The Red Skirt

 

Words like knives on her nape
Haunt her days, shatter her nights.
A sense of void
Within her gut
Wrenches her soul
Tangled and tight.

Hundreds of hands
Offered for handshakes,
None that open their arms.

Taking the words,
She weaves a skirt,
Adorns it with red.
Too faint to paint her wrists,
She clings to the skirt
And the ache it brings.

With every cut, from the skirt
Her smile grows wide
Walking into the roads
Bleeding and quiet

 

Comments

  1. AnonymousJuly 22, 2025 at 11:30 AM

    The poem is good but not very pleasant , and it wasnt some canon event because we were never meant to be so dont be sad alr

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. ChikuuJuly 23, 2025 at 2:48 AM

      Apologies, if you didn't like the poem 🙏, Regards

      Delete

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