I'm not what you think
or see
because inside,
here under these clothes,
is a dying human.
I look alive,
put together,
but for the last time
the glue has failed to hold.
My saity has fell off
the edge again,
and my hand reaches
for the blade again.
'He is only a friend'
is what I carved,
and all the crimson makes
up for the tears I haven't
cried.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem