The Scalpel

Nerves bulged, apparent under pale skin.
Fury engulfed her;
These fibres were abusing her misery.
Blood in those veins knows nothing
of the force the mind exerts.
It spilled a hatred so sharp it pierced her eyes,
letting a single lost warrior flow, carrying her defeat.

Those lids were reservoirs, refusing to break;
The bloody dam of tears.
Why doesn't it flood?
The quiet, eternal silence
haunted her forever.

The soft haven of family
always distant
No altercation
but neither were any fairs.
Ghosts were the stories by friends
scolded by Ma-Pa.
In her house, though
words were precious
never spent on useless converse.
Their faces, their eyes
a fierce shard.

The Scalpel
always her favourite
her father’s tool
a toy, perhaps, to her.
Why was it in her room?
Why was it in her eyeshot?
Was the fate already written?
If not, why did the scalpel rest on the floor;
soaked, red, and cold?

The shard, the glass
so very sharp
Cut through her soul
yet she lived.