If monsters aren’t born, then what am I?
I suppose I am an aftermath of sorts, the result of something crumbling.
My mind is crumbling
and I wonder how long have I been losing this battle.
My thoughts are a switchblade, they know how to hide their sharpness,
they know how to slice me open just as easily.
And oh, to think how much I can bleed from a sharpness that is my own.
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC
If monsters aren’t born, then what am I?
I suppose I am an aftermath of sorts, the result of something crumbling.
My mind is crumbling
and I wonder how long have I been losing this battle.
My thoughts are a switchblade, they know how to hide their sharpness,
they know how to slice me open just as easily.
And oh, to think how much I can bleed from a sharpness that is my own.
Request permission to use this poem