I am a nothing. Hollow as decayed tree. Spongy insides that crumble. Diseased past formal recognition. I am broken inside. I am not stable.
Whisking winds dribble past my frame and wash away all that's left. Particles of who I once was set adrift on the cold northern winds that once gave me the only comfort I knew. The only truth that can be true, awareness of self existence. Breezes come and go, tearing part by part the matter I was.
To bleed is beautiful. Liquid red velvet drips. Scarlet life drains out. I used to cut. I needed to feel. Raging river of heme. Pouring out my tears.
The release attained by self mutilation cannot be sustained or achieved by anything else. Once you grip the emotion you never let it go. The layers of self created by letting can plague you by resurfacing. Yet its poison because you never quite get what you need from it, forcing you to cut again. and again.
To trigger uncontrolled again. Thy tears yet fall. No cure set stable. Thoughts can save me. Thoughts can kill me. Elegant despair refrained actions. I cannot smile alone.
