How euphoric must it feel when that cool blade slices into your pulsing skin leaving a scarlett trail behind.
The blood dripping down to the bathroom tiles below. That sting of pain with the aftermath of sweet, sweet freedom.
This is art in the most primal form.
But alas I've never felt as free.
Never really had much of an artistic hand.
I'm not that brave.
Yet.
YOU ARE READING
wilted flower
Poetry•Vol. 1• I am a wilted flower. Nipped at the bud. Dried out by the harsh sun. Never given water. Never given love. Never given a chance to blossom, into the vibrant flower I know I can be. •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••...
