Etched in blood on my skin, these words I wish that I'd never said.
Back and forth they argue, the voices within my head.
An internal fight.
Bearing external wounds.
A neophyte in life.
But moving on soon.
I'll speed up the process.
Or stop the heat in my head.
The release that I might get.
Stop.
I want to go home.
I don't know where home is.
I've lost my home.
But I know how to find it.
I'm not ready to go.
So I'll wear my heart on my wrist.
Paper skin ripped open.
With the flick of a sin.
And now they're all silenced.
Take control.
Blind defiance.
But once again, the low tide rises.
YOU ARE READING
Contingency.
PoetryA small bit of poetry. ( Any writings surrounding a "general you" are most likely not based on a person. Rather, an object, or act.)
