Cold, Crisp Air

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a very open poem about self harm that may not be understood by many. Modernetly graphic and may be triggering.

Submitted: January 04, 2013

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Submitted: January 04, 2013

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Cold, crisp air along my fresh slit wrists. the night all around me and all that I see is dark, red blood. and I smile at the wind the world as pinned me down Suddenly it's all too quiet get peaceful The cold night engulfs me and I lay in a pool of my own blood I want to drown in it. It drips down my forearm must make more harm I want more. Onto the concrete I laugh at what I have done because I have no worries; I just don't care I just breath in The cold, crisp air I fall into a peaceful sleep I wake to dried blood everywhere The sun blinds me it feels like a cold, lonely desert. I realize I'm still here with my slit wrists in the cold, crisp air.


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