Sonnet to Self Harm


As the blood bubbles upon my pale skin;

I inhale my inhibitions quickly

Seldom has a tear graced my chin

My mother will never know her angel's sickly

Seventeen years of emotional wear

My aura is that of an elegant ghost

I'm enshrouded by words of their disdain

Not smart enough or appealing as most

Here I am faced with a great wooden door

One side is filled with strength and beauty, how ideal

The second is reality, life's chore

Humanity is gilded with much zeal

If I could cure us of something crucial

It would be making our life less frugal


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