I feed the blood from this old pen and into paper blue again with red line dot to spot the flaw
I feed the blood a little more.
I starve myself of oxygen to feed more blood into the pen and from the pen yet more again to flow.
To go or not the red line dot, the flaws I spot the blood, the bleed the overwhelming need that goes to feed this anaemia that which in turn serves only to make each scenario that tiny bit dreamier, anosmia, can't smell, can't taste, ink never goes to waste because I inject it back into my veins.

And I tire, retire to take a time to rewire, a hard drive dive into electric cells, dwell within without my pen in hand and still the blood flows into flawed lines, these are the red dot diary times.

I feed to feed and that alone,
paper, pen and I am home.
leave me
be to
write and
bleed.