there is old blood stained into the cracks
of my phone's broken screen corner
i'll never be able to get out
there are angry scars on my wrists
for sunflowers to sprout from
like red stalks
if i don't kill myself first
and that's the hard part
i've heard we have no choice in death
but i've never liked the idea of
no control
so i took it back
how ironic it is now
that i feel out of it
YOU ARE READING
Dysphoria
Poetry"I dreamt I grew roots and sunk into deep earth, Where mud became my skin and dampened grains freckled my surface, I opened my mouth wide for the sprouting branches Leaf-speckled limbs And sunflowers blossomed from my eyes, Sunlight bled in waves, w...
