Sometimes the moments are only in my head but they feel so real. When you finally write them down maybe they could be real, that does not mean you can hide the evil ideas either. Follow those moments with me.
The carving of my thighs, my stomach, slashes across leave a trail of dripping rose petals, softer than a fluffy kittens fur. The scars of thorns on my skin. Displeasure melts through me smoother than the blade. While, anger creeps over my chest, it waits a minute or two before the burn kicks in. My lungs deteriorate at an alarming rate, to others, except me. I have always been one to notice air hates me, rejects me, whenever I take shaky breaths. The sensation crippling; ripping of veins that have long since dried out. Attempting to shout is just coughing up the left over sandpaper. Please stop trying to save me. I have a vessel with no more use; a stem with thousands of thorns and not a petal left to bloom.
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