Words, as beautiful as they are,
Can't capture the feeling of relief
After harming the skin you were given
By "God".
They'll never capture the guilt
After putting the tool away,
The feeling of being cared for while you clean your own cuts,
The promise of never doing it again,
And the betrayal of your own words

❝Isn’t the ending of a lovely story supposed to have all the bad guys die? For example, you, or me…❞
there won’t be anyone left to tell the story.

like a fire on a cold winters day
the warm blood seeps
from my leg
from my arm
reminding me
i am human
i am alive
the warmth is comfort
when all is cold
the blood is my own