It's toxic. It's slow homicide.
Feeling dead inside.
It makes you want to rigorously scrape your skin, peel off the remaining bits,
tear off those eerie veins and drown into your own bloody-blood
Until you get to touch your naked bones.
Enough to believe that I exist,
But the lifelessness shall still persist.
No reasons, no meaning.
A sight less dreadful than the cataclysmic thoughts that attack me,
that strangle me till I am breathless.
The loud cries from within push and pound hard onto my body's membrane,
screeching for help
Unheard, silently dying.
Choke, till all I am left with is this odd feeling called helplessness.
Forcing me to drag my new sharp steel all over again
across the healing cut.
A deed that might heal the excruciating pain inside
Of perpetual emptiness,
but certainly less painful than drinking
the poison of worthlessness.
For scars that live,
but people who don’t want to.