the poems from the heart.

gorey .

tw : suicide, gore, sh

i wonder what i would look like.

my body laying on the cold tile of my bathroom.
my wrists cut in pretty, neat, and dripping lines.

my throat slit, pulsing out blood as my heart struggles and begs to keep beating.

a pool of blood would surround my frame, staining my clothes, skin, the floor.

making the air linger with a metallic smell.
until i start to rot.

and my body bloats,

then pops.

maggots will wriggle everywhere,

feasting on my flesh,

until i am discovered,
or consumed.