my life, a piece of glass, shatters and i don't cry
not when the blood smears across my face
not when i take the shards out of my skin with a sharp blade
not when it cuts again and again,
my flesh teared until scars cover up the beads of crimson
but i cry over a bad grade
a failed game
a lost tournament
a small mistake.
why is it that i care nothing of my heart,
but everything of my mind?
i am a mastermind
but never a masterpiece.
isn’t it sick,
how i have let the world’s wine
make me drunk.
About the Creator
Rubiewrites🩸
“hurt me with the truth, but never comfort me with a lie.”
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