𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 | 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲 ✔

🌻 | 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢

i.

I'm not like you.

ii.

The blood on my hands does not wash off.

It is more part of me than my left pinky finger

and the faded scar on my forearm.

Do not try to scrub me clean.

You'll only make me bleed.

iii.

This blood is not the blood of sinners.

I kneel before children without childhood,

those rendered empty.

I stitch their wounds with the sinews of my flesh.

They do not deserve to bleed.

iv.

People like me were born into this world with an excessive urge to please.