Ink flows through my veins
sharpen blades on my wrist
bleeding on paper
swallowing my pain
through the clenching of my fist
slicing through tendons
feeling dismembered
like I'm expelled from a group
coming up is December
a time spent together
yet I'll probably sit with my Solitude
me and him in my room
with paper and knife
cutting myself to see
what my blood will write
Innards embody a scribe
parts of me die
either given away
or taken from me
my blood is here for you to read
honost and open
no flow of deceit
and not a trace of defeat.