The knife I stroke in my hand
I wish I could lash open
so violent and so cynical,
so carelessly
each vein in my body.

Until each drip of thought of you
runs out my skin in deep red.
Staining every white sheet of naiveness
that I would shield myself in every dark,
since you invaded me

When I call on help,
they are blunt. I am left on hold,
as my room floods with thick red.
Because they say that they are in urgent rush
to stitch up your scars,
and neglecting the ones that you spread onto me