Quotes and poems

#79

I told him I was a writer

So he asked to see what I had written,

I didn't let him see,

and he didn't understand

It wasn't until a few months later

When they found me

Skin as white as porcelain,

Eyes dead as space,

Then he finally got it.

My wrists where the parchment,

My blade was the feather,

And my thoughts where my writing.

I had to many thoughts.

They didn't just fit into one wrist.

So I wrote elsewhere,

Thighs, wrists, ankles , arms, legs,

Feet, hands, collarbone, hips,

And more.

I had written a sad story,

And made sure it would be

My last.