<Where she went?>

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I don't like myself

I want to destroy my face

Rip out my lungs

I want to gouch my eyes out

And stick them in a jar along

with my

tongue

I want my torso dragged

across the concrete

and my hands torn off

and shoved down my throat

so I can throw up my mistakes

I'm so sick of myself

I deserve to be sick

I'm not a undid masterpiece

I'm a waste


The Poors Of The Pity •Mental Health Poetry•Where stories live. Discover now