His skin is a canvas,
New lines of art carved into it every day
He has a needle wrapped in thread and dipped in ink on his dresser
And he's sleeping between blood stained sheets
His calves are warm, resting over mine
His eyes are crimson and they're burning holes straight through my collar bones
He's self medicated and sedated,
Staring at his walls like he's never slept between them...
Touching my legs like he's never slept between them...
I worry about him when he closes the door
A thick red pool is forming under his nose every time I find him unconscious on the bathroom floor
He paints over the wearing scar of my name on his forearm every day
And I've stopped asking why
Because the question escaping my throat feels like a death sentence
And every word he uses to respond coats the room in this eerie pain, that feels like a funeral
I've grown weary of the lasting sting as he pulls his hand away
I don't know how many seasons have changed while we've been this way
But if he doesn't open the blinds today, I really can't stay