My words have the power to cut
and sting, and draw blood
from all your hidden wounds.
They are glass shards, hidden
in plain sight, on the paper.
Thorns, wrapped around your heart, pull
tighter to the sound of my words. And you
mistake this pain I inflict for
intellect and the pangs
I cause you for
sharpness and wit.

But now, I find that my own wounds
are healing, and the words
which I previously wrote
in my own blood, do not come, flowing
as they once did. My ink
is running out. And some of you, the ones
I love dearest, are like me
But you keep your ink
pouring, even as you suffer. I
cannot be like you, I
am not so strong. My nature dictates
that my wounds must heal, and I,
in my weakness,
must let them. Your sharpness comes
at the greatest sacrifice
a person could give.
I know this. And yet, I still
Aspire towards you. Bleeding
myself as I do so.

And now that I see
growing scabs
decorating my wounds, and my blood
clotting and drying, I just
wonder- now that I
resemble you no more, will you forget
the formerly vibrant colors of my pain?
Will you forget my brief stint
as one of you?
Will, much as my wounds are,
the gates close? As I lose
this sharp tang of
my perceived brilliance,
will my alluring, painful glitter
fade to you?
You, who are strong,
(or maybe in my foolishness
I only see
your masochism as such)
Will you leave
Me
Behind?