I miss my blade I threw away.
I want it back , it's calling my name.
But I've flushed it down so so far away.
But there's always razors to break open.
I don't even care if I cut my finger tips trying to reach them, it's the sweet feel of blood rolling off me that I want. It's the scars that form later that I need.
I am not ready to leave this practice.
I'm far too addicted and I need it , I need it to stay with me just in case I fly off the handle soon one day.
I love my blades , I'm not ready to walk away.
I want it back.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry from a damaged soul
PoesíaMany words that have been trapped inside finally scratched at the walls of my soul and escaped.
