Poor you,
Look at what you've done.
You lied to yourself,
Thinking I'm the one.
The blood on your wrist
Is yet more proof
That what you think of me
Couldn't be further from the truth.
I'm breaking you apart,
Tearing you to shreds.
Put down the razor, dear,
And hand me some meds.
We can't both be like this,
Not over me.
If I leave now
You'll get better, you see.
YOU ARE READING
Dark Poetry
PoesiaMy random pieces of poetry, both inspired by depression and the happiness that makes me fight on.
