TW: THOUGHTS OF SELFHARM
Although I say
that I wish to die,
I'm not sure if that's true
and then I cry.
I have no intention
of overdosing on drugs
or slitting my wrists
bleeding out, pulling down
my sleeve with a tug.
If I don't intend
on dragging a blade across
my skin, why
do I keep one,
hidden, in my room, up high?
I know the answer,
let me share it with you;
in case I ever have enough
and what bad can a single cut do?
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoetryLike most of these are vent poems. Comment if you want. Or don't. WARNING: May be sensitive topics, such as SH
