“I think I'm dying.”
I whisper into the phone
As the blood empties from my veins
and onto the cold hard floor
I can hear my mother's labored breaths as she announces she'll be here in five minutes
I can hear the panic in her voice
As I feel my self fading in and out of consciousness
It's a feeling I've never felt before
dying, the ceiling above me is spinning
And the pain on my wrists has numbed away
dying, the art of dying
Is it art though?
The art of leaving a mourning mother
And a confused little sister.
YOU ARE READING
From The Attic (poetry)
ПоэзияFrom the attic is a book with thoughts and qoutes and countless poems I've stringed together with the scattered words in my mind. any
