Forgotten Love writes in red ink.

Blood.
Blood.
Blood gushing from vanity vessels- the veins.
It's coming fast.
It's a big one.
She grabs a towel wiping away the red love.
She gasps for air.
She feels dizzy.
She puts a bandaid on it.
It's her wrist.

It's 3 o'clock in the afternoon.
No one else is home.
She sobs.
She screams.
She regrets.
She hates herself.
Her love heals over.
The next day fresh love is romanced.
Other wrist.
Today it's in the shower.
It's smaller.
She hides it with a black bracelet.
She wears the love like a badge as if way into some sick secret club.
The cutter club
Those kids don't understand.
You do feel better.
The pain prolongs thinking about the problems.
Her forgotten love lasts two years.
Two years full of excuses.
She finds a pen writes better than a knife.
She finds herself a member of a new club where ink smudges and baggy eyes are the ticket in.
The late nights with no sleep and the insomniac dreams write better than a series of razor roadblocks on your unhealed wrists.
A girl you don't know makes fun of one of them.
a cutter.
She never forgets and always glances at the permanent scars embedded on those wrists, hidden from the surface.