the nights alone, spent lurking.
swimming in another man's souled voice.
is when I apologise for the aching marks I bruise upon myself.

because I've rinsed my heart, clenching my fists.
then ringed it out until there are no senses to swallow
the desperate urge for pain,
from someone else.

to numb the knife of loneliness
which I caress in the dark, then slit.

then  I dance this pen,
until it's ink recklessly glides upon bare lines that
pleaded desires sing for pain.

to wipe off this blood, that won't dry
until it has someone to scar for.

but again I'll still stay slicing.
blaming ghosts, dreams, hallucinations.
to wound up isolation.

choke out any last lingering tears
to dilute the escaping blood
in attempt to stain.
to remind me,
that I hurt for something.