When I write with blue pen
the ink turns red
draining the blood from my body
There will soon be no more left.
When I turn the page,
thin paper skin flakes off my wrist
My fingers itch to scratch at it
Yet somehow, I resist.
And then when I feel my bones
turn into plastic
my hair turn in glass
and hear my smile turn sarcastic.
When I have a stack of paper skin
one after the other
I bind them all together
and I place them in my drawer.
After a few weeks
I might have enough
to make a book of blood and skin
that will remain once I am dust.
I write about my home
and the people that I know
I set to fire all my mistakes
and from the ash I watch them grow.
When my blood-soaked words
All shine fiercely on my page
It’s enough for me to know
That I’ve reached the end of an age.
the ink turns red
draining the blood from my body
There will soon be no more left.
When I turn the page,
thin paper skin flakes off my wrist
My fingers itch to scratch at it
Yet somehow, I resist.
And then when I feel my bones
turn into plastic
my hair turn in glass
and hear my smile turn sarcastic.
When I have a stack of paper skin
one after the other
I bind them all together
and I place them in my drawer.
After a few weeks
I might have enough
to make a book of blood and skin
that will remain once I am dust.
I write about my home
and the people that I know
I set to fire all my mistakes
and from the ash I watch them grow.
When my blood-soaked words
All shine fiercely on my page
It’s enough for me to know
That I’ve reached the end of an age.