The walls of my bedroom
hold too many secrets,
and too many stories
that I can never tell.
The lights on my headboard
have overseen more tears,
and have twinkled bright
when my life threatened to blow out.
The journal in my drawer
has heard my desperate cries,
and seen me at my worst,
yet can not help me more.
The blades secreted in a precious box
have kissed my skin far too many times
and traced mazes into my
too pale skin.
The new year
is something that threatens
to escape me, and I have to wonder…
is this the year?
3 comments
this is so beautiful, in a morose and sad way. chin up, beautiful.
Thank you, Caraphernelia. I try my best…its all you can do. Sometimes, its enough.
I read this a few days ago. I didn’t comment because I was just too embarrassed to admit that I read poetry on suicide sites.