We all have a story, just sometimes you forget how to tell it.
Almost as swift as a blade in the hands of a criminal, your innocence can be cut out with the sharpness of broken words. In what direction did your mind go as your eyes studied the trace of your wounds? Were you calm as you sat in the chilled breeze of death?
Almost as quietly as a mouse's sigh, your tears clamored to the ground. Your lungs inhale with oxygen, and retract with gilt- Guiltiness of the fact that you've stolen the pureness of your fingertips. You'll smile solely until your clasped jaw grows weary, just until the bending breaks. It's almost as if you've sewn a mask to your emotion, misleading your judges attention.
You've created a borderless restraint, no need for punishment. It's almost as if you believe pain is punishment. When in reality, your undertoned bloodstains means more than any excuse. When you're already motionless body begins to lose its life, you look at your hands and wonder where it all began. No water could ever wash the pain off of these dirty hands.
