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Bloody Wrists And Daggers

I have bloody wrists,
And daggers on my bed,
This is my excuse,
Of every nasty thing you do,
To ease the pain and hatred,
The cuts release the pressure,
That you put on my shoulders for years,
Many lies,
To many chances,
The last one was the only you had left,
So my wrists are cut up,
To ease my pain.

Author notes

umm well idk im into writing pain poems.

idk

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