She slashed her skin open,
the dead sea in her mind bled from the veins.
Time passed and cuts healed, but the hatred was forged in her scars.
Every call for help she screamed was met with an echo.
I return to the rose to see its beauty,
It was thrown to the fire
and is now a jagged stem.
I know of her sting.
I talk to her from time to time,
she still wants to kill herself.
She only stays alive for others.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Every call for help she ever screamed was only met with more disappointment. Every time we reach out to someone and aren't consoled, a little part of our hope dies in that moment. cry for help. hoping for the best in life, disappointment. a very nice poem. thank you very much . tony