I touch my wrist to feel its beating
From beneath the fabric of my sweater
And marvel at the fact that I,
Regardless of my significance,
Am still alive and existing.
Existing for the few I've touched
And living with my own desires:
To feel love, to feel happiness,
To be sane, and not lose hope.
For within my head, are those dreams;
Such a selfish wish for me to have,
This want, for me, not to die
By a blade held within my hand.
By a virgin, I,
Not experienced in love,
While feeling old, and yet still being young,
Whose heart is so heavy; so torn,
And worn upon a sleeve of pills,
So ragged and grey,
That red seams come undone.
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