Can She Matter


She will not matter.

All she is exists on tumbled and broken down roadways, silent piles of animal carcass left to rot on the ground as a simple would-have could-have should-have. She is the rotten meat and soured milk of the decaying rat teaming with stench and maggots, of use to no one. She is an obtuse reminder of what was, what could have been,  to those around her  as tree branches grow everyday on her skin and endless nightmares assault her every night as she sleeps.

She will not matter.

Once upon a time she was an endless circulatory system of dreams, wishes and hopes. Now she is an embodiment of what a cruel world has done to those who are vain enough to dream and hope. Her soul bleeds the same red that her ravaged wrist do in the darkness that surrounds her, and she is left bitter, weak, and wasted from the cruelties of this world.

She will not matter.

Her mantra, screamed to the wind around her, as she stumbles about this city like a frightened child who has lost sight of their mother. Still she recites it from morning to night because it keeps him away from her. Keeps his hands from her thighs, his mouth from her throat, and every tear remains in her eye, because if she cries it means that it does matter.

And she cannot matter

So every night she gathers her blade and she selects a spot on her now marked up flesh. She closes her eyes and imagines her body, because the mirrors a liar and she's not quite yet that ugly. Her hair can't be broken, her eyes can't be dead, her flesh can't be rotting, and her skin can't be carved in; because still his grasp is within her and his seed in her snatch and his words in her ears as she swings down her knife.

She will not matter.

After she's done she cleans up the blood. She rubs fingers over wounds that list her pain as a real, physical thing transcibing her echos of hatred across the universe of her flesh.

She will not matter.

It's silence as she remarks her hatred of her body staring with dead eyes into the darkness that dances running bitter fingers through her falling out hair...

She will not matter.

At this point everything hurts. Her body aches from cuts, her head from the screams that run faster than blades in this house, even her stomach from the constant purging.

She will not matter.

She will ignore these pains though. She will ignore them everyday as she slips on a bitter mask and smiles cheerfully at the world. She loves this mask, breathes it in, but it is a lie. Especially in this house.




This is an updated copy also published on under R.C.Epperson which is my account.

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