What a time to be alive;
Where your skin can bleed like leaves
In the first fires of Autumn day;
Those little droplets formed from hatred,
Spilling out onto the pale fields of your body.
They say that you are sacred,
Holy beyond belief,
Yet they do not tempt to tell you,
Of all things to keep secret,
That it is also the thing you hate the most.
And so, without help or information to cure your temptations,
You pick up the blade, or scissors, or compass,
(Whatever sharp object does most please you)
You bleed until you have bled the bad feelings away,
Much like Autumn has bled away those dead browning leaves;
That's what happens.