"The sea that pain calls home"

This is a poem I wrote when I wasn't felling very good about myself

Tears have existed as such a constant
Presence that they have torn
Rifts down my cheeks,
My flesh bleeds and scars with
Each new traviersity,
Sailing in blood
Cleanse these chasms
So often that I forgot what it was like
To exist without the hot wash of suffering
That burns down my face.
When did I become this person?
This creature perpetually shrouded
In darkness who's existence
Is so morosely defined
by the massive wound of emptiness
That consumed anything that once
Held meaning to me.
The night never promises a dawn
Which perpetually fails to surface
And extinguish the dark.
It has become as cold inside me as
Vibrant life was torn away
Layer by layer so that the vast
Eternity of promises has been dwindled
To an endless sea of loss,
I sit on the crimson shore line
Letting the blood tide stain my feet,
I cry into the sea and mourn the life
And possibilities that have been consumed
By that this is me.

By: Helen Hawkins