Scream

alone in the whispering darkness
the soft touch of a nighttime
breeze caressing her cheek
she molds into nature
and, naturally,
doesn’t fit
the mold.

that’s why she’s here:
to cleanse, to clean
to get rid of the pain
stabbing mercilessly
at her wounded soul.

when the blade cuts
too deep
when the crimson
soul seeps out

it cleans.

she smiles tiredly.

like a splash
of cold water
she’s awake
screaming

screaming

it cleans…

we are the stories nature has told
and, naturally, we don’t fit the mold.