The knife slid smooth across smoother skin,
A thrilling thing, a winning sting,
Blood bubbling up like syrupy scarlet wine.
Alarm bells felt like fireworks to celebrate the first time,

“That’s dangerous!” the brain screams, eyeing the **** aghast
“It’s exciting.” the body sings, sighing dreamily and relaxing finally,
I’ve found a way out, I think, somewhere between the two.

To bleed is not to die, but certainly it holds the key,
Perhaps someday, some night in the haze of the absence of sleep,
I’ll reach for my razor and cut so deep,
That all there will be left to do is bleed and bleed and bleed

If you think the outside is { ugly }, you should see my insides.
You’ll hardly be surprised,
At the black { sludge }
The { stale }, boiled blood.
At { the bitter } pills,
And hateful words
The
Self
Indulgent { self-pity }.

If you think the outside is { pretty },
You should see my insides.

Because you’re { wrong }.

A { poem } doesn’t mean something,
Until the { words }
Are { tears } on your cheeks,
Or a { smile } on your lips,
Or { words } to be whispered,
Tasted,
kissed,
Shared.
A { poem } doesn’t mean anything until it’s gone in
And come back out.

They say the envious will have their vying eyes wired shut,
and their lips sealed like empty sepulchers.
And yet, in spite of this,
I think I’ll covet you until the end of my days
For if I cannot look upon your face and feel it { mine }
                                                             ­                    I’d rather not see

And if I cannot say your name, and ******* { claim }
                                                             ­                    I’d rather not speak.

Covetous?
Perhaps

Envious?
Always.