my blue veins pulse, life
throbbing, aching, red spilling
i crave, the cutting

i wish i was pretty,
like the tip of a fang,
like a drop of blood,
like a beautifully adorned room,
like the smell of an old book,
like the patter of rain

i like pretty things—
like the eye of a storm,
like lightning followed by thunder,
like the moon as it wanes,
as if darkness were eating it

the night likes pretty things too,
a blue coal sky, littered with stars.
they eat away at pretty things,
covering them in a devouring shadow,
making you lost in its eye

i am the night, the shadow,
i drink and feast on pretty things,
so i eat you too.

external bleeding

my old bandage
soft, frayed edges,
threadbare, worn thin
by restless hands, restless nights,

maroon patches
like cowhide on cotton,
each stain a quiet record
of battles no one saw

years of ache
woven into its threads,
dried blood stiff
like a childhood teddy
clutched too hard,

and still –
i rinse it gently,
silent and thinking,
afraid the water
will wash away
what held me together