Classified
Self-Mutilator
at best,
my toxic body oozes black tar.
When mistakes are made
they form
Into ghosts.
But I,
I stare at the Munch.
I pour my blood into a cup
ingestion without filtration
 that's the mistake.
And it cycles.
A broken-hearted soul
with a hidden screaming face,
I was never breath taking
like the
Birth of Venus.
No,
Just layered with
thick sadness
like oils on your canvas.
A mixture of the deepest black with the dullest blue
Expelling
from my mouth
a bulimic on a binge.
I stare at the Munch,
wondering if these
cocktails of
Regret
      will ever
           dissipate.