was another time.
i was another place.
i was dull.
i didn't understand.
i was sacrificed.
i was broken.
i was bloodied.
i didn't know.
i was innocent.
i was hands stained red.
i was screaming.
i didn't mean to.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Anna Lundy Cook and writers in Poets and other communities.
Day 4 of Quitting
If this is how sobriety feels, maybe it’s better to go through life a little buzzed… this, along with other hits like, I want to kill myself, I wish I was dead, and I’m going to throw myself off a bridge have been the only thoughts on rotation these past few days. I promise myself that if, in a month, I still feel like this (‘this’ meaning despondent, full of rage, and simultaneously numb) I can go back to smoking. Until mid-February though? Nicotine is off the table.
By sleepy drafts5 days ago in Longevity
Comments (1)
This is a striking poem. The image of “i was hands stained red” is incredibly vivid!