on some nights alone in my bed room

i used to draw pictures of lines with razor blades

across my skin

over my wrists

and then the tears would salt up the blood

and when i licked

it was the most different taste ever.

the slight metallic sweetness, with a hint of the sea thrown in.

the pain sometimes numbed out most of the mental frustration

and beads of blood would soak through sheets.

i was always so hateful

and angry

that every night i would be crying

and cutting

bled and shed.

i still have the scars.

things just got better

and i got smarter.

he found me.

and so the wounds closed up and walls stopped closing in

i watched the pieces fall, i always knew they fit

i just didn't know how.

naked and torn, and

i still can't forget how beautiful your skin was. like the fuzz of a peach.

you had wings, you just didn't fly, and stayed with me instead.

and i loved, and desired you for every fucking minute. i'd get overwhelmed with want, and flurries of thoughts.

oneday, you


i didn't bleed for you this time though.

Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien

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