The slash marks,
in my wrist,
Shine so red
under the lights.
But they feel,
so inadequate.
The thin stretch,
of pale skin,
Over my sprawling veins,
T'would appear that,
I have to go just a bit deeper,
And then I get to disappear.
Oh to disappear,
Be without worry,
or illness,
No more sickness,
and no more health.
Turning out the lights,
would be so simple,
But to complicate,
would save my life.
And so I will get through,
To find the way out,
of my prison.
Thinking makes not a human,
The only true way, is doubt.
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 10:16 AM UTC
The slash marks,
in my wrist,
Shine so red
under the lights.
But they feel,
so inadequate.
The thin stretch,
of pale skin,
Over my sprawling veins,
T'would appear that,
I have to go just a bit deeper,
And then I get to disappear.
Oh to disappear,
Be without worry,
or illness,
No more sickness,
and no more health.
Turning out the lights,
would be so simple,
But to complicate,
would save my life.
And so I will get through,
To find the way out,
of my prison.
Thinking makes not a human,
The only true way, is doubt.
tw: self harm