I ask myself why i ran a blade across my skin. Was it worth it? Was writing your name with the crimson brine that fuels me worth every stroke?
Yes. Not that you’re worth spilling blood for, but resorting to self-inflicting aids me in bearing this weight. And it doesn’t hurt.
Watch me leap.
Watch me fake.
It’s sad how I spilt my blood to write your name.
I’m letting go. I can’t hold my cards close to my chest any longer.
It must feel good to feel the contours of your neck pressing against my scarlet-stained palm.
I..
I..
I.. have nothing to say.
You’re a drug.
And it hurts.
Why must I remain unseen?
Either way, I lose.
I always end up bleeding.
Fleeting.
Tragic…
Why must I keep dancing?
Why must I keep looking beyond your door?
Because I am like no other.
And I could have loved you like no other.
