Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jul 2020
and my fingers bled the moment you left--
I sliced them on a broken mirror
when throwing out the trash;
the cuts were
deep, the blood flowed heavy;
my first instinct was to **** the
wound and it helped briefly,
for a moment,
before the sting of glass surged
it's always been my idiosyncrasy to find metaphors in pain
m
Written by
m  27/F
(27/F)   
220
     James Rives and Cloudydaze
Please log in to view and add comments on poems