She wears a choker full of thorns,
Not because it’s fashion, but because it fits.
Every step, a sharp new pain,
A weight she’s learned to carry.
Like a garden of her misery,
Every stab a new rose bloom,
Pressed tightly against her throat,
Like a reminder she needs to breathe.
Her ruby heart gleams in her chest,
A distraction, something to hold onto,
Bright but hollow, less hopes than fears,
It’s not the heart that matters, but the scars beneath.
Her neck bleeds under the surface,
The marks invisible to most,
But she knows exactly where they are,
And just how deep they go.
She walks through the night like it belongs to her,
Careless and cold,
Unbothered by the silence that wraps around her,
Today’s another fold.
She could take it off, maybe,
Let the thorns fall, let her wounds bleed.
But some things, you wear because you’re afraid,
Of who you’d be without them, wouldn’t it.