I am bleeding myself every morning, sometimes quite aggressively.
My brain's become responsible for too much blood, you see,
My head gets clogged up, and
the blood—becomes responsible for all the naughty thoughts that drive me...
Oh My,
Sticky. If you ever got it on you.
My blood is white like the untouched snow out back, could be almost marble imitation, for all anyone knows, before the tracks have been put in.
Marvelous snow, beaming in on me.
To wake me.  
Harsh on my eyes the sun is, It and It's reflective partner maim me. For my idiocy in having kept my eyes shut through a morning such as this.
The glass doors are perhaps too kind in their admittance of the morning light; they must be early risers.
Oh My,
My blood is cold. That's why I stay, content, in bed with warmth.
I am, as it appears, too much a coward to ADMIT MYSELF into this air
to spite the sting of winter,
to drown in it, naked, and embrace it, the taste of it, like new lips—belonging to a thing more grand than any living creature to have graced me yet. And in that breath...
Oh My, what, oh what new secrets
shall I/might I/ unbury with my hands—if only set to dig in the right place, and for long enough.

But the lips of Earth can't ******* as well as I can.