The blades cut my skin as tears fall, twin streams of searing salt and painful brine.
Each slice another gash, another sprawl of wounds that fester far beneath this surface line.
The razor's cruel caress, a traitor's kiss,
lays bare the anguish hushed beneath my guise.
No longer can I veil interior abyss truth slips through crimson rills from wounded lies.
With each rupture, each violent crevice torn, agonies too weighty to contain burst forth.
No poultice can conceal what I've borne, no balm may heal what cuts have given birth. These metastasized lacerations of the soul
weep endlessly, though I attempt to stive.
Pain's molten rivers, molten-hot, carve every hole for some hurts are too scalding to survive.
Still, I cannot resist the razor's embrace, its sting the sole relief for deeper stings.
To bleed is to breathe, to hurt is to live this case what catharsis the cutting solace brings.
As tears and viscera merge in sanguine streaks, the blades' sharp consolations are their own reprieve.
This ritual of release is what my spirit seeks to cut, to cry...the only way to truly grieve.
YOU ARE READING
Penny for a Poem
PoetryI just write what I see in others or feel, leave your thoughts. If you have any feelings you'd like me to write out lemme know
