A Little Poetry

Comfort

Ever since I have flushed my blades everything has gotten worse

I have no place to export my stress, sadness, depression and anxiety.

But the input is coming in twice as fast.

I don't know what to do with it. I feel like a coffee cup that is filled up to the brim with Coffey and someone is still pouring coffee but it's somehow not spilling over the top

I miss my blades
I miss their feeling against my skin.
I miss the way that my blood looks mixed with the water in the bath

But most if all I miss the pain
I miss the comfort of knowing I am alive
I miss the comfort of all of my stress is pouring out if me as thick crimson liquid.

••••••

Hey readers. it's only been a fucking week. To all of you reading and going through the same thing (I hope your not) hang in there.