can you tell me where to put it all?
where i can pour this overflow of emotion
before it bursts through my veins and bleeds me out
now that i have no vessel
he was a butcher, so he had strong hands
and they left fingerprint bruises
that made him cry in the morning
when i smiled and pressed down harder
he was a poet, so he had a silver tongue
and it soothed the cuts it made
but the scars never disappeared
even after he did
she was an artist, so her eyes made me feel exposed
and they analysed the tones of my skin
umber and rose and vermillion
but the colours stained my sheets
they were my vessels, so i gave them everything
filled them with my thoughts and my words
but I have nowhere to put it all
so now i pick their shards out of my feet
YOU ARE READING
Hysteria
Poetrya collection of my poetry for the world to pick apart. warning: some of these poems contain themes of mental illness, self-harm, and attempted suicide. if these are likely to upset you, i would advise against reading.
