I sat on the bathroom floor,
tears falling quietly down my face,
red drops pooling at my feet,
each one heavier than the last.
A first aid kit in my trembling hands,
filled with gauze, stitches, bandages-
tools for mending skin,
yet powerless to patch a fractured spirit.
I watched the red seep and spread,
wondering if healing was meant for others,
if I could be stitched back together,
or if tonight, I was too tired to try.
YOU ARE READING
Trapped in my own head
PoetryShe is an outcast. She finds it easier to express what she feels in the form of writing. Whether it is poems, letters or long texts. These are poems that she writes trying to describe how it feels to live with certain mental health issues, in a worl...
