your skin was a writer's trail
scrawled in ink was a fairy tale
except there were no happy endings
only an incessant stream of emotional spending
drawn in red, dried up blue
your wrists were bruised by pity and pain
when it was cold outside, you wrote again
only to cover it all up, shamefully so
no prying eyes discovered your woes
the ink stained thick, going deep
all of your pens thrown in a heap
YOU ARE READING
What's Wrong
Poetrysome of these might not make sense but trust me neither does my mind
