I write with bleeding fingers,
I left crimson on the white washed walls.
Clean it off, but a plaster won't-
fix this.
I smashed a mirror to stop slitting my wrists,
shards of glass litter the room, glowing silver.
Sharper than a grey, blunt, blade,
and there is enough for every vein.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
I write with bleeding fingers,
I left crimson on the white washed walls.
Clean it off, but a plaster won't-
fix this.
I smashed a mirror to stop slitting my wrists,
shards of glass litter the room, glowing silver.
Sharper than a grey, blunt, blade,
and there is enough for every vein.
