I dripped colorful spots on the way to my death
They are my blood
Warped and wild
Dried and brown
Pink and green and blue and ultraviolet,
Infrared.

You can't read them like a book
They are not crystallized or processed
They're the dribblings of death escaping from my neurotic dream
They're things felt and considered, suffered and enjoyed
Only ever belonging to me,
And even then--
Just something I see.