These scars,
So they say,
Will take longer to heal.
One of my hands may not again feel.
Who would know?

I hold so much blood
When it flowed,
Seeped down and dripped
To the kitchen below.
Then they know,
I was planning to go.

So much for my locks
They smashed in without knocks
Screaming ‘Alice’.
I was white and death cold,
At least so I’m told,
As they struggled to hold me together.

They won’t let themselves know
I stopped fighting the flow
Of the rapids all those years ago…
My hand didn’t slip from the branch
By mischance.
I let go.

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