The scissors in my hands hold me. They quaver as I draw your portrait in my head. You look different in there. You don’t look sad, or depressed. I picture you with more embrace to the world. The scissors in my hand stop me. They stop me from continuing on to what you were before. Before everyone was glum and down. The scissors in my hand hurt. They hurt like they have never hurt before. Cutting me. Making me bleed. The blood slowly travels like a stream down my chest. To the pavement. To your portrait I used to stare at. I watch as your breath quavers, and mine stops.
I wrote this peom when it was really cold outside. It was a while ago
YOU ARE READING
Poems by GarrillaGal
PoetryThis contains all of my poetry. The poems vary from recent to ancient, and depressing to uplifting. It is very short, but I will be adding to it as I go.
