Scars
I used to cut.
My skin yes
but that isn't as important.
What matters is I used to cut my Soul
I used to tear down my Spirit
flesh by flesh
fiber by fiber
I saw my soul and de-humanized her
she was of no importance
she did not matter
and I almost killed her.
On the outside, she seemed fine,
happy
content
beautiful even
But that was not the case
she was a liar.
because she really was not okay.
She was dying.
As the blood dripped from her side
her soul slowly dripped away with it
like a steady waterfall of pain.
But this is no sad story.
My soul did not die.
I did not let her.
I was the author of my own sad story; I chose to change it
YOU ARE READING
Dead...
PoesíaPoetry/small stories that contain depression, self harm, and more. If you don't like it then don't read it. Comment, Vote, and share!
