Tattoos You pull the razor against my arm… It drags, the blade cutting deeper and deeper into my skin. I am scarred… Blood seeps out of the wound, It hurts. It hurts bad. Yet I do not cry, For you would not comfort me, You would not care. I watch as the numbers are written in my flesh. Once I didn’t believe people when they said this hurt. They said the pain was unbearable… I didn’t believe them, Yet now the razor is cutting through my skin. Living the past hurts. I want to go home now. a poem about the holocast
