I didn’t kill anyone, yet I’m a killer.
My hands aren’t clean, its covered with blood.
I tried to wash it off but it doesn’t seem to come off.
The color of crimson is permanent on my hands; it can’t be rinsed off.
It’s not someone’s blood, it’s my own blood that covers my hands.
I’ve killed myself dozens of times just to survive.
I’ve killed parts of myself to fit in, to survive, to keep on living.
Something had to die somewhere so I could stay alive.
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Author:
Cherry Blossom (
Offline) - Published: October 4th, 2023 08:03
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 0
Offline)
Comments3
Isn't it the truth, sometimes we must kill a part of us, maybe chip away to conform, to survive? Your words flow smoothly and with truth.
This is an incredible piece of work! I love the imagery so much.
A theme that appeal to the therapist in me .
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