this day is stained with the blood
I bled for you,
I taste the whiskey I downed to try to forget what you put me through.
I thought I was okay until
I saw a picture from that day
and the memories came through
like a broken floodgate.
i’m less than okay,
I don’t want to exist.
the thought of your hands on me
is something that persists,
and the temptation of self mutilation seems less like a risk
don’t give up, or don’t give in
I’m not sure this time.. which will win