There it goes the stake to my heart. The inevitable curse of my existence. The looming shadows and the figures who laugh at my failures and then the long hours of staring at my wrist and the blade that's gonna penetrate it. And when I scratch my face to avoid dying, when I stare at myself in the mirror and when blood seeps out on my soft supple skin of suffering, all I do is wail and beg for what have I done wrong when all I did was do my best? Why am I here again? Why am I again with a blade on my hands in a darkened room? My skin that contained all the dirt and the skeleton and my heart, my skin that contained all the innocence and the hands and the scars and when my wrist is beyond saving, my family telling me I have a deep pulse, and when I die again and again and when I secretly delve in to my skin and one cut, two cut, three cut and the heavy breathing. Four cuts, fifth, sixth, and the begging. Seventh, eight, nine, the sensation of addiction, the sensation of relapsing. And when my sister asks what's on my wrist, new found scars have formed again.
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I have found myself a home
Poetry🧸⃤ In the Kaleidoscope of wanting to be home, I have found myself a home in places I have been. The shade of colors found under streetlights, the thrills of joy in the shrieking of laughters by the side road. The love woven under fabricated happine...
