1 cut.
2 cut..
3 cut..
4....
The blood rushes from the vein on my wrist as colors turn into smuges of grey and black
As I pull on the shower curtain to stay but it crashes down upon me like my dreams
And covers me in all my self pity and tears that I've spread like wild fire across my face in the pain
And as you hear the crash and sorrow coming from the bathroom
You already know it's
To late for me.
YOU ARE READING
Loud Pøetry Spilled From The Quiet Soul
PoetryAll of these are mine. Not the Internet. Trigger warning. (Self mutilation, depression, anorexia, etc....) And my apologies if they aren't even slow to Bukowski or Anything....I just wanted to try
