The blood running down my face,
Mixed with tears of my lover and my own,
I lie here in the street...
With a knife-mark on my cheek,
Not deep but still enough to die,
All I can see through my tears is my lover,
He's sobbing in my chest saying I'm sorry...

3 am
he laid in the shower
quietly allowing every droplet of water
to pour into his open flesh
firmly gripping his weapon of choice,
beginning to carve fairytales into a broken canvas
as if he were a father
telling his son a bed time story

surrounded by a pool of ruby red ink
the artist gradually began to work deeper
almost nearing completion of his project
taking a breath between every stroke
the artist proudly admired his work

painting red across my wrist
and all i wanted was a better view
"wake up"   it says   "let's go get high"
my cheeks flushed hot red
damped by my fears
bored because i'm dumb
it calls me a queer
my mind although
is a riot that you watch
from your tv
pupils dilated
doll parts scattered
bless my body
bless my soul
wrap it up in
turpentine
you're so *******
fabulous babydoll
you fit right
******* in

I have noticed
each day
the ink splatters
staining my fingers.

They leave marks
in such a way
that kiss the paper
and probe the heart.

A stain whose blue
creates a deeper shade
for words to hide
a silent voice.

I long for my ink
to begin to stain yours.

You see the dots
and think of me.
You wash yet they stay
so you think of me.

The stains of my pen
have left you blue.
So you think of me,
and I'll think of you.