Scars.
I used to cut.
My skin yes,
But that isn't as important.
What matters is I used to cut my Soul
I used to tear down my spirit
Flesh by flesh
Fiber by fiber.
I saw my soul and de-humanized her
She was of no importance
She did not matter
And I almost killed her.
On the outside, she seemed fine
Happy,
Content,
Beautiful even;
But that was not the case
She was a liar.
Because she really was not okay.
She was dying.
And as the blood dripped from her side,
Her soul slowly dripped with it
Like a stray waterfall of pain.
But this is no sad story.
My soul did not die.
I did not let her.
I was the author of my own sad story; I chose to change it.
YOU ARE READING
The Side We Can't See
PoetryThis book is about depression, cutting, suicide, and feeling alone if you do not like those things or are sensitive to those subjects DON'T read! ****TRIGGER WARNING**** It might be a little to dark or "emo" for you but I am sorry I need to get t...
