A poet told me to hurt myself.
So I told a woman I love her.
My sense of justice overthrown by my desire to live forever.
It was terrifying.

She told me that she loved me too.
So I kissed her without hesitation.
That kiss held my passion and lust, but not true love.
It wasn't right.

I told myself that it was worth it.
I cried briefly into her neck.
Don't make me talk about it, just bite me.
It was ******* fulfilling.

He told me that I need to bleed.
That this is how to be creative.
That everybody will kiss my scars.
And I'll finally be unhappy.