I pump the poison,
Through her veins.
It calms the pain
But tears the brain.
The things I do
To the writer—
To feel new,
To stay a fighter—
Are terrible,
Yes this I know.
So unrepairable
She can’t let it go.
I tortured her,
I wrecked her mentally,
Her life became a blur,
But she lives fundamentally.
I needed a mind,
To go on with life.
To not be blind,
But to be defined.
Even though she’s small,
She won’t write happily.
I’ve took that all
And I’ve kept it for me.
But I feel good—
Though she screams and cries—
Stealing her childhood
Filled with blue skies.
Too bad now,
The mirror is shattered.
She escaped somehow,
Though left bloody and tattered.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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