Lace on my thighs and fringe around my neck,
more is revealed than the flowing crimson blood.
Bleeding deeper and deeper with every slowed breath.

Deeper than the girls I see with their shoulders against the wall,
the dream girls with their purple hair and tattered tights.
My neck growing saturated with strawberry nightmares,
but at least they like my tattoos.

I feel the black cats circling my ankles,
cries of hunger and any form of normalcy or stability.
It feels familiar, like a hymn from my childhood
throbbing between my ears.

Overlooking other's carnage is easy, until it's your own.

I don't know what this means, but it comforts me.