She plays the violin against her skin,
Not with a bow, but with a blade.
Carving beautiful notes into her flesh,
With red music pouring from her veins.
YOU ARE READING
Diaries of a Suicidal
PoetryPoems and short little things my mind cooks up once and a while. Read if you want. **TRIGGER WARNING** Most of these poems will let you into my mind, which isn't the safest place. Most of these will deal with my depression, so if you came to find so...
