There's blood on the bathroom floor again,
My mother would be ashamed
My head's the one that causes the scene but my soul is always blamed
Three weeks older,three weeks clean
I thought this time I might just win
But once again I find myself digging holes into my skin.
No amount of promises can make or break the fight,do not believe that I am well from the sonnets that I write
The world is for majority,not everyone will thrive;
We're pushed so far we go against our instincts to survive.
This is for everyone who feels as though they aren't good enough.
For those who try again and again,only to fail.
This is for everyone who has ever been misunderstood,hurt,abused or broken.
This is for the fallen angels.
Love,
The dulcist.
YOU ARE READING
r e m n a n t s
Poetrybook two; the prequel to dystopia,the explanation of what happened before the girl learnt to love herself @pulcist was my earlier account,dystopia is available on there. all rights reserved @dulcist
