Questions.

A Poem by Nina Marie

"It makes not a single sound as it flows out of my veins."

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Is that really the sound to describe my blood as it hits the tile floors?
Does it truly fall in such a fashion, that it should make a sound as it is pulled downward, to eventually meet it's demise on the ground?
No, I would say not. As the crimson liquid trickles down my wrist, it certainly does not splash against the floor.

It makes not a single sound as it flows out of my veins.
And if it did, whom, might I ask, would hear? And if they could hear the soft sound of my core crashing in the deep crevices of my being, would they care?
Do I matter?

If I cry, will they reach out to comfort me?
If I'm angry, will they calm my temper?
And if I bleed, will they heal my soul?
For we bleed from the very center of our beings. Perhaps that is why they cannot hear my blood fall.

And if they cannot sense my bleeding, are they truly worth my time?

Do they even matter?

Do I even care?
What a silly question.
I care more then they could ever know. More then ever could be known.

And so do they hear my cries? My muffled wailing for comfort, for love?

And what good is love if it is absent when it is truly needed?
And I think to myself, how many more times am I destined for this sorrow?

How many more times can I live through this pain?
It is too much for me to bear...