***
And my skin bled,
an array of ink and red.
The protruding screams continued in my head.
She was dead.
So my wrists cried red.
My nightmares, once again, filled my head.
And even in my sleep, I bled.
The wretched color red.
***
Dedicated to okhoe- because I love you and you unintentionally inspire me to continue writing my feelings into the language of poetry and to overall become a joyful, better person. Thank you.
***
6/29/17
YOU ARE READING
The Scars On Our Skin
PoetryCrap poems by a crappier person. They paint a pretty picture, but the story has a twist; the paintbrush is a razor, and the canvas is their wrist. Highest Rank; #48 in Poetry Graphics by; @deeplyenchanted
