23h
8th grade I read you—
suicidal Plath—
in front of my class.
"Edge" was the poem.
"Lady Lazarus" would've fit you better.
Funny, how when you unraveled,
blonde hair, hazel-eye, stripes on your thighs,
I heard the same cry and turned away, because
I hated the color red.
Clinical depression,
what a joke.
Pills, razors, approaching finale.
And I, merciless beast, ignorer of tears
covered my eyes.
Ignorance is ****:
it's real warm,
and hey,
You gave me a bracelet last year
(I've given you nothing.)
Don't die on me now, okay?
suicidal Plath—
in front of my class.
"Edge" was the poem.
"Lady Lazarus" would've fit you better.
Funny, how when you unraveled,
blonde hair, hazel-eye, stripes on your thighs,
I heard the same cry and turned away, because
I hated the color red.
Clinical depression,
what a joke.
Pills, razors, approaching finale.
And I, merciless beast, ignorer of tears
covered my eyes.
Ignorance is ****:
it's real warm,
and hey,
You gave me a bracelet last year
(I've given you nothing.)
Don't die on me now, okay?
A lot of stories have been told about people that cry out. People that are kind-hearted, empathetic, sensitive, beautiful in all their scars. She's still here today, beautiful in every way. She's still alive, but I'm not sure for how long. I really messed up. I'm really messed up. This is a poem about that, from my perspective as a horrible friend.
