A square-like surface, 
Where pain lies as smoothly as your words. 
Hurled as hard as he could, 
Despite shining on the surface. 
It still burns red from your hateful words, 
Cutting me up deep with imperfect scars. 

Mental illness is a gorilla in the room, 
As I write my own poem, 
Breaking down like a broken smile on the kitchen table. 

Why do I seek acceptance from people, 
Forgetting I was thrown away like a menstrual cloth? 

The fragrance of pine fills the air as I sit alone. 
No witnesses, but the bowl of fruit cocktail is on the kitchen table.