There's a certain kind of self hatred,
it turns everything inside you out
And all you can see
Is a ruined body.
A corpse living.
Not a person,
not a life --
a walking carcass,
a funeral waiting to happen.
You eyes become sullen --
your skin becomes blue,
Pale,
Bloated.
A rotten piece of meat,
dressed up with a living breath --
your bitten nails become bone,
your wrists gained.
But you settle for purgatory,
this limbo dance,
for what?
A chance to feel like something before you go?
YOU ARE READING
Cerulean
Populárno-náučnéMy thoughts, depression and short stories need a place to stay. (Trigger Warning: may potentially contain explicit content such as depression, suicide, substance abuse, etc.)
