Her ears, they tire of all she has to hear – they are deaf and yet your words never cease to echo, as though she’s afraid that the blood trickling down them to her jaw defines whether you’re really gone.
Her lips, they tire of everything she’s trying to say – seven stitches to stifle words unsaid and requiems unsung because you both know they’ve always been obscene, and lately she’s begun to doubt if you ever really wrote anything for her to regurgitate.
Her eyes, they tire of all she has seen – they are shut and yet even when they’re open, you’ve already blinded her with your willingness to show falsehood over and over, to spin her around until every solitary thing in her vision is clouded and inevitably, her judgment. You smile blindingly and it lingers behind her lids, as though you never really left and would never really leave.
Her fingers, they tire of everything she touched – numbness setting off from the frayed nerves in her hand because your warmth has been gone for far too long, and yet she still feels the contours of your face, the glory of your neck down to your shoulders, and this still sends tingling sensations to her fingertips.
Her feet, they tire of all she has to run from – they are incapacitated and yet she still dreams of walking away, as though you’re gone and her body aches for her to follow suit. You kissed her hard and whispered for her to run, run as fast as she can, but she never listened.
Her wounds, they tire of everything about you - lesions throbbing and abrasions that never stop bleeding, must they tell you they could heal if only you’ll say again the three little words she all but stayed for?
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