Lacerations by Charlotte Kettlewell

I am not a silent poet

The blood drips

in morbid fascination

down my arms

as you draw the knife

away from my wrists.

You denied me the help I needed

because what I had was just

“in my head”.

But the knife stuck in my arm

is very firmly in reality.

Such a shame

that I shan’t be here much longer.

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