Lids stuck with labels;
Glue seeps into my tears;
Streaks mark my pallid face:
Tattooed suffering for those who look, to see.
Oh, out dammed spot;
I rub but can’t remove;
Scrubbed raw, an open wound:
Those shadows play havoc with my weary eyes.
Violent concerto;
A rhythm of pain;
A symphony of bruised hope:
Your strings make me burst into flames.
Are my tears more worthy now?
Mellissa Flowerdew-Clarke 