TW
My thighs are a graveyard,
A field of scattered sadness,
laced with burning regret.
Their graves are ever living corpses,
fresh blood spilling from old wounds
Each time they heal over,
another wave of remorse,
a pang of longing,
I crave the sweet pain
I watch the blood spill,
my body numb but on fire
my eyes are dead,
my mind always awake
I run until I can't breathe,
my chest collapses,
my lungs implode,
run from the guilt.
Fresh scars cover old ones,
cover up the pain with more cuts.
the bathroom scissors stab my innocence
YOU ARE READING
The archer (poetry book)
Poetry!! NOT A STORY !! This isn't fiction, or a story, this is me, and the poetry I wrote about my own life and experience. Not expecting anyone to read it but I just thought I might put this out into the world because it's a little snapshot of the real...
