I am not characterized
by red roses,
white pills,
dark circles,
or by sad poems,
dark clothes,
running mascara.
I am not
a warrior,
an angel
a silhouette,
or a dream,
a story,
a greyscale photograph.
My mind is sick,
not beautiful,
not tragic,
and not aesthetic.
If I jump,
I die.
If I cut,
I bleed.
And my death is forever.
And my blood is red.