Home

June 4, 2008
By Amari Flaherty, Cambridge, MA

I smell my blood,
Draining from my finger,
Fast, gushy, and red

I feel the pain,
Of
the wound I created,
Sharp and intense

I taste the anger,
Of my hatred,
Bitter and cold, just like my heart

I hear my shoulder angels,
The angelic one and the devious one,
One saying” Yes, keep going” and the other” No, stop hurting yourself”


I ignore them,
Off in my own world,
And fall to the ground

When I awake,
Surrounded by white and sitting on fluff,
I know I’ve arrived

I am Home, for good


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