cw: violence, self-inflicted violence

Sometimes I long to shove a knife into my spinal column.
To spear the little red ball of anger and frustration
And kill its poisonous flames of repressed and jagged jawed blood lust. 
It has been raging against my blubbered skin

Since I was young.

Sometimes my fingers twitch to resist the urge,
To snap my neuro pathways with sharp nails.
To suffocate the grey neighbourhood in my skull,
That stormy and gloomy enclave
That has told me nothing good is to come,

Since I was young.

Sometimes I must hold my finger beneath my thighs
So as to stop myself from clawing the skin off of the back of my hands.

I think I’m digging to my heart.

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