That rush you get
when you sink it deep
in your skin.
That high you get
as red trickles
down your skin.
That blade
in your hand—
in your skin—
becomes apart of you.
You can't take it back.
It's stuck
deep inside
your skin.
All that's left
is that goddamn rush...
and you love it.
YOU ARE READING
Poems of a Neurotic Insomniac
PoesiaLet's see how this goes. It's time for this sleep-deprived, emotionally-unstable creature to write some shit down.
