bloodstained
Category: Poems

when will this cut scab over?
it feels like i've been bleeding for centuries.
everything i love’s been stained a dark red,
and it's getting harder to wake up.

if this cut was fatal
I’d be dead ten times over,
but mercy has yet to meet me.

i live to die,
and i each day
i wake knowing
i have one less to go.

maybe if god were to send me an angel things would change,
maybe i could learn to live to live.
god and fate are lies anyway.

if i were just a little younger
maybe i could die for/of this.
some kind of f***ed up martyr
proving love doesn't exist.

i wish i had a crystal ball
so i could memorise my first kiss.
so i could see you.
just once.

or will i die in the cold?
bleeding and alone and spiraling down screaming about how i knew this was how it was all going to end.
after all,
someone has to die this way,
and i can’t seem to believe that i’d find the medicine i need.

i never fit the criteria for any of them.
i’m going to strip back this metaphor now
to tell you that i have issues with the way i look and sound and feel.
and i’m not sure i can see past any of them.

i think that i could write this until the end --
whether that be the end of life, or the end of pain.