I taste blood as I bite my lip too hard,
I swear I can even smell it;
I see it on the napkin as I dab at it and
I hear it as my heart pumps more through my veins.
It feels slick in my fingers as I graze over
The wound I self-inflicted
And the notion of it surrounding me
Is more or less intoxicating.
It drips down my chin,
Like a tear might,
And I’ll admit the burning pain
Created a mixture of the two.
I don’t want you to think me mad,
I am just passionately mesmerized
At this sick wonder—
Sick, as in it’s making me die.
I have a terminal disease
And this is how I cope
You wouldn’t understand my fascination
Of the death that flows inside me.