Blog Posts, Personal Thoughts, Poem

dark head space

Ran that sick cycle, a girl that was.

The one that’s dead but you drag around?

This should be past tense by now.

Hands that please yourself, indulge.

Be it too much cream, be it a mind cat set for self-destruct.

Or verse in your skull you reconstruct.

Hell knows this ain’t what you need.

But you know the cheep trick bleed.

Not from self-inflicted wounds,

But from the ache you choose to breast;

and chosen lack of self-respect.

Why drag around something dead?

Why choose the sick again in head?

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