The way it drops the way it beads up.
The way it pools on the floor.
The deep Crimson colour the silver that draws blood.
It's intriguing.
I smirk like a phsyco.
I slice like a butcher.
My skin rips and tears.
Soon scars will be scattered there.
Re open
Re open
Re open I do.
I'm lost without these red lines.
They make me smile.
They soothe my mind.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry from a damaged soul
PoetryMany words that have been trapped inside finally scratched at the walls of my soul and escaped.
