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

tongue tasting iron prayers.

maroon patches, like cowhide on cotton.

smearing grief, across closed lips.

a blue coal sky, littered with stars.

red blooming beneath skin.

like a childhood teddy, clutched too hard.

sweetness dripping from the chin.

in the end, im wailing in water.

i drink and feast on pretty things.