Red lines
Make some sort of sleeve
Caused by this sharp edge
You say it's terrible
And I try to argue
I say it's okay
It's completely fine
But I know it's a lie
And as I make more red lines
A part of me tells me
That doing this is okay
And it's normal
To lacerate my skin
To cut it all open
I don't see the problem
When I say it's okay to be addicted to pain
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth.
Poetry(n) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past. Collection no.2 --very old poems--
