bLeEd DaMnIt

If anyone could write, it couldn’t be me....
But as I am….
I really tried last night....
But that lovely little story just wouldn’t come out right….

I burned it after reading my wretched attempt……

Then I tried again...
The words flowed as easily as the blood from my legs…. my back, my heart.
Yes, I remember every cut, every slash, every tear in my eye, the words came out all on there own, there was no staunching their flow.

That red rainbow spectrum was so very, very beautiful as it pooled about the crooks of my twisted body.

I love the colour, the taste, the pungent odour, the texture. Oh! You can’t imagine the way it feels!

I traced my finger along the fresh cuts….the blood collected under my nails.

I wasn’t thirsty; my misery wouldn’t let me ingest anything. I remembered the blank typhonic heart I’d made on my wall with black nailpolish…. too…..colourless….

It made such a pretty filler on the wall...

The colour of my pajama bottoms was black; they were saved from the crying of my veins. But the sheets were brown…..no, tan; they were soon crimson.

I got to see my shin bones that night, the skin was so easy to tear away……
My hands are still stained red; see?... an artificial tan to my pale-translucent complexion.
It brought some colour…I love colours….but I’m not a very flamboyant person, I keep to myself unless I have something to say…. Usually I forget what I was going to say….


It’s late, my love, very late. Or is it early?....
My memories are slipping dear, not much time…
Will you come to my deathbed tonight? Or will my passing be unnoticed, forgotten even?....

The funeral drums come pounding, the crazed taboo upon my dying ears.
I’ve heard them for years, sometimes the sound is all too much, and quite often is the cause of my insomnia.
I cursed the night, it killed all my pretty colours.

Damn it all.