Letting Go Is All I've Held Onto
Bloody Wrist Bands
Wrist bands. How suspiscious can they be?
Blood. It covers the edges, and still no one notices.
Are they just incoherent? Or do they just not care?
This diary is becomming more and more handy. Ha. Just
like ... The "Good Old Days." Right? I know what I mean.
My wrist is beaded with thin, deep red lines. Just
like ... The "Good Old Days."
I'm heading for a break down, and intolerant to the world
around me. Just like ... The "Good Old Days."
I'm shutting off the world, and fixing in to my "reality".
Disbelieving everything past. Just like ... "The Good Old
I feel the sting of regret, and the pain of this fixation.
This home remedy. Everything that could go wrong.
The pills. The tightening of your throat as you swallow
tiny life after the next tiny death. Feeling your heart
stop as the blood feels warm, and trickles down your skin.
The tears that form behind your eyes. They know
something's wrong, but they don't bother to care.
They're oblivious to this. The way you feel inside.
I wouldn't have to worry. I wouldn't have to be me.
The mirror. How perfect is the reflection, shinning
against the silver grey glass. How idol is the child's
devilish eyes starring back into my own.
I hate her. I loathe her. I punish her. I want to be rid
of her. but I don't, sadly.
This wrist band is etched with blood. but no one sees the
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