"Doesn't it hurt?"
I stood there, puzzled, trying to find a way to explain the feeling.
When I watch the blood drip down my arms, warm and mesmerizing,
I want more—I need more.
Every strike feels better than the last, every cut deeper than the one before.
Each slice feels like I'm cutting through the noise in my mind, like I'm carving my way to quiet. This hunger slowly drives me mad.
Again, again, AGAIN!
It's not that I don't feel the pain, but there's so much happening inside my head that the pain fades into the background
—small, insignificant.
No tears, no screams, just silence as I watch the pool of blood grow beneath me.
Crimson silence.
"Yes,"
But only I know the truth—that it doesn't. And I never want them to find out.
YOU ARE READING
The book of meaningless words
PoesíaJust a silly collection of slurred words into poems, matters of my brain on a paper, pieces of my heart in verses, last bits of my soul in a hardback book.
