These are my tears, that drips into the very first lines that I wrote on this paper. My own blood spewing out of my body. The blood. My blood boiling. Only do to the fact of knives! Knives, knives, and more KNIVES! Looking at the reflection in the cresent handle that daggered through my chest. Ripping the scemes that should of been sewed from the beginning. But yet, they're just starting out! Taking a notice that my skin had been split! Split more then I can say one, two, three, or four times in a row. It burned more then hell itself. Looking at the reflection right down in the center of my eyes, I've seen nothing. Nothing but the PAIN, GUILT, SADNESS, the fire that lights its matches on my skin to say as if I were being burned in a fire. But fire is also my double standard. They say that fire can sintch the opening cracks of skin shut. So for this is what I call my remedy in a crisis. Now that my bloods are beginning to disappear into thin air, the tears that I had cried earlier are now my salvation in this life. No more BLOOD will be shed from this body!!!!!

This poem is about: 
My family


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