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.
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