A sliver of skin rips from myself I take the knife from the upper shelf Skimming the blade through each skinny hair The blood within mixes with the purified air
Drip drop down my white pale arm From the look of it I enjoy much harm Able to see clearly tons of hard bone My heart is broken like pebbles from a stone
Tears fall down my colorless face Unable to see the light between all this black space Chopping away the person I am Looking like a beet red Hannaford ham
Piles of memories splatter on the floor Agony and loss block my bedroom door All the pain I once contained Is hopefully finally being drained
I lay upon my comfortable bed And picture the horror that I just bled It's cold within these shattered walls My happiness feels so very small
I heavily walk to the bathroom sink The mirror is melting just like ink I stare at the person on the other side She's just bone with little to no pride ... .. .
This is a poem about suicide. I do not feel this way but sadly many do. It's supposed to show that when your done, it didn't improve anything.