Forecasted detachment
Pours onto the floor
Oh, sweetie,
Did you really think I could take any more?

The disorganized mess
A constellation of blood drops
Are spit-sput-spattering
Razor blades are my props.

Barbed wire barriers
Built up in seclusion
I close the heavy curtains
And hide inside my illusion.

I say safety
Is solely for the weak
But trapped inside my emotions
I have no logical right to speak.