Her eyes,
glint in the moonlight.
Her bruises,
an ugly sight.
The scars on her wrist,
as though painted on,
by an old artist.
She wants to be free,
to be left alone.
Her heart,
is as hard as stone.
She is empty,
she is done.
She knows it is over,
as she raises the gun.
YOU ARE READING
My Heart-Shaped Box
PoetryThis is a small collection of some random poetry from my life, I believe that in reading a person's writing you can get an insight into the person they truly are, so this is me and I hope you like who I am
