Beauty.

In the hanging garden.
Death.
Death is calling.
It wants.
It needs.
For me.
To be set free.
 
Tiresome eyes.
Rotting mind.
My body is...
Weak and scarred
From all the mutilation.
 
In this razor.
I see myself.
I see you.
In my scars. 
The secrets.
The facades.
 
The desire,
The thoughts,
The life in which I long for.
They run from me.
In trails of blood.
In drops of tears.
 
I want to take my last breath.
In the hanging garden.
Where beauty blooms.
Where beauty expires.
With the gentle winds
Blowing through me. 
 
In death.
I can find true beauty.
No Gods.
No judgement.
Just me, 
And all things cold.
All things beautiful. 
 
This poem is about: 
Me

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