You cut my wrist.
Yes, you did.
I wasn't the one who killed myself,
it was you.
By the words that slipped
out of your mouth,
not realizing it would cause me
six feet under the ground.
Your mouth was a bow,
your words were the arrows
that pierced through my soul.
Even your saliva,
it was a poisonous acid.
Unconsciously,
You killed me.
YOU ARE READING
She
Poetry"A book is she that has countless pages, blood is her inks, and her pain writes." This story contains prose and short poetries that is all about a woman's point of view of love and life.
