My broken heart.
My poor, broken heart.
Once pierced before, once killed before.
Knives stabbed through my heart in every possible angle, every possible degree.
I couldn't take them out, that's how you die of blood loss.
Everyone knows you shouldn't remove knives from stab wounds, not unless you're a doctor.
So why, why would you throw salt at my wounds.
Why would you throw it directly in the centre?
You know how hurt and broken my heart is, I let you see it.
Yet you threw the salt anyway, no second thought.
I wanted to scream and cry.
I wanted to cry until I cried out all the water in my body.
I couldn't let you see me cry, so instead I walked away, defeated.
Defeated and dead.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoesíaJust little segments of writing that I've written to vent I guess, my friends call them poems but I'm unsure of what they are to be honest. Just a warning some of the content written in here may cover some triggering topics, so if you are easily tri...
