Covered in scratches
Covered in scrapes
Drowning in wounds
That eternally ache

You can scream but no one hears you,
As you sit and mock in disdain,
The blood seeps down your arm
As your crying out loud in pain,

The broken glass beside the bath,
The water turning red,
Laying down in a ****** puddle,
Trying to rest your head.

You can hear your family laugh
As you say your last words
Feeling as high as the sky,
Flying away with the birds..

The pain is going away now
And you can't help but hear
You're mum crying next to you..
In hurt and fear.

You try to speak,
But nothing comes out...
You know your going away
You're never going to live with doubt.

As you feel death coming near
You hear her say "I love you"
As you slip in to a permanent sleep
You reply with I love you too...

Art is either plagiarism or revolution,
but
we've all
heard that
before.
It feels like
originality is impossible
when only given
twenty-six
characters to work with,
and so
these are not
my thoughts,
this does not
belong to me,
I am
writing the same things
that all those before me have written.
We are either replicas or denying it.

Comfort is laying my head on your chest listening to your heartbeat while you run your fingertips up and down my spine.
Comfort is you holding me so close to you that I can almost feel your blood pulse through your veins.
Comfort is you randomly kissing me throughout the night while I'm asleep next to you.
Comfort is feeling your lips leave trails of kisses down my neck to my collarbones.
Comfort is feeling your fingers weaved through mine, tightening whenever someone got too close to me.
Comfort is missing your lips when I lean in for a kiss and all we can do is laugh at how clumsy I am.
Comfort is hearing you whisper sweet nothings in my ear while you run your hands down my body.
Comfort is tangling my fingers in your hair while you kiss me deeper than you ever have before.
Comfort is feeling your skin melt into mine.
Comfort is you.



                               B.S.