There are so many countless days
and countless hours, minutes and seconds
I spend thinking about stealing blades, so many of them and slicing my skin,
being hypnotized by the deep red blood trickle down my arms and thighs.
I get taken over, I just can't stop.
I am infatuated with the thought of just one more.
Two, it's okay.
Nine, not bad.
My whole arm, what have I done.
I am in a state of utter denial and betrayal to myself, I forget to breathe. I'm just stuck.
YOU ARE READING
Infatuated with hopelessness
PoesiaWell I know no one will probably read these but I write a lot of the time, just random little poems or anything that comes to mind. I usually write these when I'm depressed or having anxiety. I just want to post some of them, even though barely anyo...
