you're not the author of this story anymore.
i threw away all of your pens and paper
so now if you want to continue to write
you’ll have to use your own blood to continue
to make our memories permeant.
***** your finger with a rose thorn
and let it gush out into a tea cup.
i hope it throbs because I still do.
swallow the knots in your throat
when you start to smear the crimson blood
onto papers because you know its not enough to
write how much you hate my guts.
You’ll have to keep pricking your finger until
it’s shriveled up like prune and it begins to ache deeper.
so you make deeper cuts in other places that you shouldn’t
and it keeps draining the blood from your body and it’s still not enough.
keep trying to convince everyone that i’m the reason
why your bleeding out cause I took away the the pens and paper.
but they don’t know my side of the story because I’m still writing it.
and when it’s all said and done at the end of the day,
your the one with blood still on your hands.
finger-paint the sadness since you can’t try to be a man.
you’ll finally get help and claim that your fine
but someone needs to convince me that i’m still alive.