These are not the scars of a saint,
red rivulets run down my skin
like crimson tinted paint.

Scratches made in a state
of sorrow and frustration
anguish so deep
that the thought of facing
one more moment
becomes a daytime nightmare.

We steel ourselves
struggling against a beast
that will not fall,
but rages fiercer
then the fiercest forest fire
scorching all
and leaving
only one desire.

We seek the cold
or at least
a certain numbness
because there is
no softness
to our existence.

Broken
and bleeding
in the porcelain
bathtub
as red water
runs over
the edge
and we
succumb to
the eternal sleep.