Frost creeps up the edges of my fingers
It coats my lips
Chills me to the bone
Reminds me who I am
I know
I know I should get up
But I'm so tired
And the snow is so warm
The shivers are nothing
really
nothing
Just a. . .
Just a reaction
To the snow
To the snow.
The tears have frozen to my face by now
Caked blood tangled up in my hair
I think
I think he hit me
That can't be
He wouldn't. . .
It's getting warmer now
I know it is
The light's getting a little bit brighter and I KNOW I should get up
I know
I. . .
It's so warm and so. .
He wouldn't hit me me
I know
I know
I-
YOU ARE READING
Please, Disregard
PuisiAn untold story from a misplaced generation, this is teen angst at its finest. These the writings of The Suicide Notebook, or how I'd imagine them to be. It's mostly going to be in poetry form, slam or rhyming. Keep in mind that slam poetry sounds a...
