in the light
of the silver ball
called the moon
and the flecks of white
called constellations
she picked up
her beloved knife
and enchanted she
watched the light
of the black night
reflect in it's
sharp edge and
she pressed it
deep into her
wrist dragging
it slowly
sickly enjoying the
sharp pain of
her own flesh
being torn apart
and the moon
watched her in agony
and cried
shooting stars for
her pain
and suffering
YOU ARE READING
Poems
ŞiirI scream till my voice gives out Till my lungs cave in Till my heart beats like a drum Till the blood rushes to my face Till the silence afterwards makes me think I went deaf 'Cause I'm so used to the sound of my own pain I scream until my body stop...
