my skin cells die
every twenty-seven days,
but I still can't shed
the feeling of your hands.
i'm thirteen
and hell is a park
near the the river
with a broken bridge crossing it
my body is new,
but it is no longer my own;
skin rubbed raw
as I try to wash you away.
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poems and rants
الشعرpretty much rants and poems by me. thanks for reading!! (it gets better the later the book goes lol) TW: ED, SH, SI, depression, anxiety and other things please don't read if triggered by these things.
