suicidal art

I’ve cut my

fingers,

letting the lines

flow into

the tip of my charcoal

pencil –

grey

on white,

I’ve cut my

lips,

letting words

pour out –

a steady stream

of syllables that look

almost pretty

when you hold them to

the light,

 

and as my art

breathes,

I hope my blades are

too busy

with fingers and

lips

to sink into

wrists

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