Her Arms She speaks in tongues of tragedy, but I don't trust her arms. They tell me #life takes two hands, but hers fight demons strong. When blade meets wrist, it's civil war. Not civil in the slightest. And as they drag her down, we fly. Weve come to see the show. To watch her slash and tear and shout until the monsters go. But when we peer over the edge into her nightmare eyes, we see her slash and tear at air and shout into a void. And as she screams at us to see, to watch them shake her soul, all I see is a girl convulse, with pity-hungry tries. I find a pool of darkest brown. Her desperate eyes meet mine. And as I stare into near-black, I see her, satisfied. The monsters are reflected there, but only for a time. And while I watch, they dissapear. No audience, no fight. I wonder if she speaks the truth, but still I turn away. And when we're gone, so too are they, these demons in the sky. They tell me #life takes two hands, and though her wrists are scarred, her hands are clean and heavy with the #life she claims she's lost.