She's a writer; she smears ink on her fingertips
She's an artist; her hands are covered in paint and charcoal
She's a poet; the pen moves smoothly on the paper
She's hurting; she smears the bathroom sink with blood to let the pain on the outside
She's desperate; her hands are covered in marks and scars
She's given up; the razor moves easily on her wrists
The words have lost their meanings
The pens and brushes have been replaced by razors and knives
The ideas and and happy thoughts that Once gave her inspiration pushed aside
The forefront of her mind filled with why's and how's
(Why did it have to happen to me?
How do I end it?)
The answer is simple and red starts dripping on the paper
Soon she won't write
She won't paint
She won't think ever again
YOU ARE READING
papercut
Poetry"How can the same thing that saves you from the dark be your downfall?"
