My wrist—it had been so wet—and you'd think I had done it to myself, but I hadn't. It makes me happy to know I can bleed from someone else.
YOU ARE READING
Bleeding Blue
PoetryI do not see color anymore. I cannot love no more. I don't think I want to live furthermore. Genre: Poetry
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My wrist—it had been so wet—and you'd think I had done it to myself, but I hadn't. It makes me happy to know I can bleed from someone else.
