i'll take a gun from your fucking pile
and shoot myself in my pretty fucking head
and blood will drip down my fucking neck
slender and pale like they wanted
and you will wonder if there was anything
that could've been fucking done to prevent it
and i will laugh
and laugh
and laugh
and laugh
and laugh
and
don't you hear me?
a heartbeat was once somewhere inside
didn't you hear it?
now that's it's gone,
do you miss it?
i had a fucking voice once.
didn't you notice?
but you fucking didn't.
somehow you fucking didn't.
but that gunshot was heard
that blood was felt
was the pretty slender pale skin enough?
was i good enough?
it's preserved now.
i hope you're fucking happy.
is this even fucking poetry anymore?
is this even me?
YOU ARE READING
red-stained fingertips
Poetryprose and poetry and blood and romance. a fucking stupid combination. ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ TW: some poems mention suicide, self-harm, homophobia, and eating disorders started in september of 2021 #4 in poetry 8 . 8 . 23
