These memories are haunting; they sting like getting a paper cut.
Remembering the way you used to touch me makes me want to slit my wrist.
You wonder why i write about suicide and death... because these memories of you bring those thoughts along, like too many clothes packed in a suitcase wishing to set out.
Blades are left tami shed by memories I have about you, they twist my mind into this labyrinth.
Where at the end of forever complex maze, you are waiting for me with a knife in hand, waiting to stab me once again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.