Purpose
It started off as a whim
Word vomit
That somehow formed sentences.
Trickles turned into floods
Things I’ve been keeping inside
And short bursts of intensity
All painted crimson in this diary.
This was supposed to heal me
But all it’s done is
Dig up my skeletons
Only for them to sink back into the earth.
That’s alright
Most importantly
My words bleed on this page
So they wont bleed on my wrists.