It’s funny how we breathe in the dead, and it passes through us, living. As we let go, we listen to the silence, as if the hopelessness could make it listen to our last plea. In the end, the only thing talking is fear inside ourselves. We are not only lost, we cannot let go of the losses we’ve inherited throughout our whole existence. I’m slowly slipping away from the surface, and thirsting for answers is the only thing holding me from fading. The one thing that keeps me sane, one last train of thought...I promised you I wouldn’t.
I live for the blood.
Laceration's the way I breathe.
Occasional knives to the skin, is how I came to be.
The poison intoxicates, turns me on with a dull blade.
Ripping at the surface, bitter joys oh, it creates.
Tantrums in my mind, when the repulsing sting
Causes a sudden appreciation for the loss of everything.
You lose all sense of being, at becoming transfixed
Up along the scars, you feel with fingertips.
Betrayed by your own promises, your head and heart part ways.
Leaving behind fraying fragments in your fragile memories.
I'm too attached to walk away now...
