The blood is on my hands.
On my body.
On my arms.
The blood is on the tiles.
On the bottom of the tub.
The blood is in the water.
It's rinsing down the drain.
The water turns bright red
Before it's clear again.
All evidence is removed.
I feel so sneaky.
But there's still that nagging voice
That's calling me a weakling.
I'm unsuccessful yet again.
I hang my head and sigh.
I patch up my victim
And try again tomorrow night.
This girl I'm holding hostage,
Isn't good for anything.
The world's better off without her.
She does not deserve to breathe.
My victim isn't normal.
Never does she scream.
She doesn't flinch or pull away.
She likes this pain, it seems.
She doesn't mind at all
When I cut into her flesh.
She doesn't care what I do to her.
She isn't like the rest.
She never cries for help.
She never tells me that I'm sick.
She never tries to run away.
She just waits for her skin to be slit.
Nobody knows of the pain she goes through.
The pain that's caused by me.
I think she deserves to suffer.
I like to see her bleed.
Someday I'll shed all her blood.
Someday I'll drain her life.
Maybe I need to cut her deeper
Because this worthless girl won't die.
But once that fateful night comes
When my victim ends up dead.
I'll leave this place forever
Without another word said.
I'm not afraid to be called a monster.
I'm not afraid of hell.
See, this isn't murder, it's suicide.
And my victim is myself.
YOU ARE READING
Broken
PoetryA collection of poems I have written while in the clutches of my demon named Depression.
