simone neal


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.

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Poem Submitted: Friday, January 23, 2009

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Langston Hughes


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