Forty five

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I was born with paper skin.
My veins filled with ink.
The expanse of my body seems to empty.
Too white and glaring.
Why others are filled with words,
I am left blank
Disgruntled
Digging into my thin exterior.
Letting the ink within me
Stain my pages.

Depression||self-harm||suicidal quotesWhere stories live. Discover now