tw: slit wrists

For the nights of sleepless dreams,
I’ll be here as a pillow, as a blanket.
For the cuts of crimson wrists,
I’ll be here as a hug and warmth.
For the terrors in their eyes,
I’ll be here as a reminder to live.
For the smoke and steam,
I’ll be here as a heavenly trinket.
For the lips that didn’t kiss,
I’ll be here, you’re not only this month.
For the mornings of obvious lies,
I’ll be here, your truth I’ll give.
For the shallowness you’ve endured,
I’ll be here, a stranger with a cure.
For the poetry you can’t write,
I’ll be here and it’ll be alright.
—  To the razor blades,
don’t touch her wrists.