Scorched skin.
Pale white.
Eyes black.
Empty holes.
I am a blank space that nothing can fill up.
I am something people believe doesn't exist.
I am something people have no evidence for.
I try and reach out.
They dismiss me as being something else.
They argue about whenever or not my existence is plausible.
Whenever I'm dangerous
Whenever I'm an inconvenience or not.
Of course, I am.
No one wants me.
Some do,
but only when they want to prove a point.
They're like spikes.
Leeches.
Leeching off of anything that's left of me.
I sob in pain.
Their tiny teeth pierce
my skin.
My veins.
My brain.
Til I am nothing once more.
And yet I still wear my blood on my sleeve.
Luring them in.
Allowing them to feast.
Because without them I am lonely.
YOU ARE READING
Alienated
PoetryIt's a bunch of poems that I wrote while venting. Some are from my other account and story called 'The Alien On Earth'. Trigger Warning: -Anxiety -Depression -Suicidal thoughts -Self-harm -Toxic relationships -Abuse
