paper thin

if my blood were ink

than i'd only bleed

when words were knives

cutting into my

paper thin skin

in the sleepless 

dead of night,

when they

refuse to leave my mind.

and all i see is black

dripping from my hands

and the horror, 

of my heart still throbbing.

the words 

bleed together

until 

all i have left of this is

my still grasping heart 

as the agony 

grows worse

 i can't stop

 loving.

there is a sense 

of there being such a 

small distance between

the words 

and the one who holds

the pen

that i wonder if 

they aren't really

just the same.

where does the beauty stop 

and the pain begin?

if my heart is seeping

if i am covered in this ink, 

no this blood,

of these wounds

then how is it still

beating

aching 

begging 

grasping for just a hint 

of a sign 

that i'm not actually 

alone again.