It is not feeling.
It is numb.
It is opening skin night after night to feel, when you want to bleed yourself dry
And you die die die a little more inside.
Until nothing is left of you but dark circles on pale skin, under unseeing eyes that cry only to know that they can.
It is looking in the mirror and whispering "Who are you?"
When you cannot recognize the bloodstained creature within its surface.
It is the shadows whispering in the darkest corners of your mind
"Come away with us, it won't hurt much"
It is believing those voices.
It is wondering,
"Why am I here?"
And being unable to find the answer.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
There Is A Hell.
Poesía(No, this has nothing to do with Bring Me The Horizon) This is not a story. This is a collection of poems and thoughts (some by me, and some gathered by various sources) about depression, sadness, etc. Warning: contains mentions of self-harm, sui...
