Scared Inside
Running, dripping, pooling,
from my arm to the ground.
The dark red drops,
splash around.
The stinging of the skin
as my blade slides past,
the stress relief that never lasts.
That retched feel I endure,
comes to an end
behind closed doors.
I wish I knew
when things would get better,
but for now.....
I'm still a cutter.
👁 2💬 0
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.
Log in to leave a comment.