I don't want to do it.
I never want to do it.
It just happens.
I swear it's not on purpose.
i'm sorry about me.
Why won't you believe me?
Does it bother you that much?
If you knew the way my heart aches at your words,
would you act the same?
It's typical, the way I feel.
Not original at all,
you shouldn't be surprised.
It's all bottled up inside,
threatening to spill.
It's likely the bottle should be broken by now,
but I can't let it break that easily,
I'm not allowed.
It hurts and bleeds on the outside, it's true,
but the real open wound is one that you can't see.
It's constantly red and raw but sometimes, only sometimes,
I can get the bleeding to stop.
On times like those, though,
you're timing is perfect.
You'll come and reopen the wound with your speeding words and flying knifes,
causing the blood to start spilling out of my fingers again.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry? My Own Thoughts
PoesieThis is a small collection of poems, writings, and reflections that I've written over the years. I will be updating occasionally. I'm sure it's not the best but I hope you enjoy! TW // potential mentions of blood and death, not graphic
