Sanctuary [Poetry]

i-c

i've torn myself
countless of times

—from the tip
of my skin
to the very edge
of my spine

it's like cutting something
superficial...
probably unseen,
unrealistic
but the wound
dig deep

enough to torment
a soul already tortured—

a breath sentenced
to suffer
a lungs born out of
wedlock
between suffocation
and drowning.

a life tagged
with a priceless
pierce weighing both
curse and a
blessing.

i've torn myself
countless of times

—from cutting
to smoking
a kind of high
where i don't feel
good

—from burning
to killing
a kind of murder
where i'm the
murderer of myself

my head is a
sanctuary of
crimes—

it's where demon lives,
the night resides eternally
and the light coming
in rarely stays.

my head is a broken
line, a perfect machinery
for suicidal ideas,
where the end of
the world lies.

my heart is hell,
a never ending sea
of fire, of blood,
and of rotten version
of me.

it's not made of diamond,
but with lava and stone, mixed
unrecognizable,
ugly, unpleasant.

with no value at all.

i've torn myself
countless of times

—and i'll torn myself
some more.