There's something about your own blood.
Collected in pools, gushing, oil-filled well.
It really means something,
the clench of teeth as that blade catches and scrapes
pinching and tearing, making a real mess of things
but then, you adapt, it's no longer wicked and strange
and you feel it, that momentary high
that heat warming up the blush of a puckered wound
god, what a fucking rush it is
dipping your toes into cocytus
What a shame it is to outgrow such a vice;
Ignored responsibly, like those fucking Menthols.
We're so boring and plain.
Where did the dark go?
Cast away, my childhood home.