Weekday Poetry: It Might Not.

I have been busy writing for other people this week. Instead of the usual blog, I will therefore leave you with an intriguing little poem about life.

TW: Injury description

Balancing.

With palms down, hands tensed, fingers claw the wall.

Tongue bitten, teeth clenched, gums bleeding. Pain is all.

There’s Blood.

There’s Blood On My Hands.

Neck snapped, back cracked, head back, hurting hard.

Ribs broke, sore throat, dry boke, I can hardly stand.

I can’t.

I Can’t Go On Like This.

Toes bent, knees capped, ankles smashed, torso cut.

Nails gone, teeth black, face all messed up.

Try to smile.

They say, cheer up.

It might never happen.

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