⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm⚠ ~ Over the years, I have cultivated many an intriguing hiding spot for my sorrows-- concealed inside of my phone case; pressed between the mattress and the box spring; wrapped in paper towel and tucked trepidatiously beneath my bra strap.
But of them all, my favourite was the book-- some fantasy novel whose name I can't recall, hollowed out with a pair of scissors and a ballpoint pen to make room for the razor blade.
It was a secret that had authored an entirely new meaning of paper cuts.
In that moment, I couldn't have felt more like a tortured artist.
I couldn't have felt more like a poet.
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(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)