splintered fingernails, blood spilling from the cracks
smoke rolling over tongues, parents unaware in their beds
blades piercing wrists, veins exploding on the bathroom floor
voices echoing in minds, tumbling over and around in heads
YOU ARE READING
A Little Thing Called Death
Poetryi won't explain many of these. they are for you to work out and they'll probably mean something different to everyone. (i own these poems) ((FINISHED.))
