He saw the enchanting flow'r bed.
Thought: for the girl he had wed,
That a flower he'd pick;
But was by the thorn pricked!
And stained all the white roses blood red.

- p. winter

A pretty innocent example of sacrifice but ya catch ma drift.

Hello my blade
    My age-old friend
You've been with me
     Through thick and thin
And now I've come
     But once again
To use you now
     Once more to sin.

My life in shambles lays ahead
Behind, a falsehood, love is dead
No options, I agree, remain
So though I have, my best, 'till now refrained
I seek the bitting edge once, evermore
To ease the pain which ever-beats its sore

And as I open flesh-ed wounds to scar
So my soul numbs, heart as black as tar
The pain, it blessed, ebbs away quickly
And I can breathe again, rattling, sickly

No cure for panic, loss, and crippling pain
Have I found, but blood, which falls like rain
Not of a Savior, Christ within
But of the broken drowned in sin

So my life just went to shit-hell, where even the shittiest of hells become reality. Forced to love, and then stripped of all things good in life.

No stranger, yet, suicide has never sounded so nice. Anything to avoid. Anything.

They say,
"How beautifully you write"
and all I can think of is
what an interesting way to tell me
"How beautifully you bleed"
--stories soaking
wet through the paper
darkening the white
between college-ruled
lines.

"are you afraid of your own reflection, scaredy cat?"

yes, i am.  it whispers my failures and the back-stabbings that are bound to happen to me.  i can't wash my face with sink water for fear that it's watching me.  its filmy eyes stare absentmindedly whenever i look up, but when i lower my head i can feel its gaze burning holes into my back.

it likes to twist a knife at the base of my neck, spinning it round and round till there's a circular wound in my flesh.  if i cry out from pain when i look up, it sticks the blade down my throat and then i'm choking on bloody words.  and i don't know which is worse - staying silent or suffering the consequences.

if i stare at the mirror for too long, my reflection's mouth curves into a cheshire smile and i think everything will be okay.  it uses the same knife as a toothpick before taking it to the flesh on its own cheeks.  then i squint and the bathroom lights flicker and i'm seeing a chelsea smile still dripping with blood.

one of its fingers trails along its mouth, as if to say "shhh." dried blood is caked into its nail beds, and its scathed hands reach up to its face.  it pulls at its fragile skin until its peeling off.  it digs its mangled fingertips into its sockets and pulls on its eyes till they snap loose.

"what are you so afraid of, scaredy cat?"

pale pink petals and matching champagne
cold grey eyes and the pavement against feet
the soft skin of collarbones and your lips

you give me a doe-eyed look before blood begins to seep
through your shirt and onto my hands
where it stains my palms temporarily
and my mind permanently

Spit the small words stuck
between the gaps of your teeth.
Before too long, they will begin
to decay the bones of your mouth.
Your smile will be stained
with things hoarded behind your lips-
Those little bits of bitterness
spread sour on your tongue.
Take a string drawn taught,
or a sharp stick
and carve out those nasty thoughts
and see just how much
your gums bleed

Have you ever had a recurring dream?
One loaded image that cemented itself
in your memory with the force
of a freight train?

Mine is simple:
I am standing in front of a mirror,
nothing special, no indication of
time or place.
But it is me, and I am standing there,
looking at myself with stiff eyes.
But the eyes are not mine.
They are definitely stuck in my skin,
but they do not roll from side-to-side
or reflect any light.

The eyes are there, and they stay calm
as blood pours out from their bottoms
down to my lower lip--
and it is my lip.
But it is not my blood,
so it must be borrowed.

It might be the blood of someone I used
to know
Or of a stranger on the street
Or of someone famous
Or of my next-door neighbor
Or of someone not quite alien enough
to bleed a color other than red.

All I know is that the blood is there,
running out of me
And every night my tongue rolls out
to taste it, but its owner remains
unknown to me.

I drained my heart of blood
To paint you a picture
And pulled myself
To show it to you
And once I finally did,
You gave it a glance and said
"uh..." (scratching your head lightly)
"It's cute...but I'm just not a fan of red"

Em MacKenzie Jul 14

You're tearing me down brick by brick,
you're waiting just to see me fall.
It's ironic as you're known to have a very thick,
personal barricade of a wall.
You're ripping me apart seam by seam,
hoping just to see me come undone.
I'd swear that this has all been a dream,
but sleep; I am getting none.

Soon it should be over,
we'll be saying our goodbyes,
'cause we've both been getting older,
with heavy bags under our eyes.
Soon this will be over,
yes, I'm counting down each day,
"It will be this way," I told her,
yet she was determined to still stay.

You're tearing me down brick by brick,
you're waiting just to see me fall.
I'm shaking, weak and feeling sick,
when once I used to stand tall.
You're pulling me down stone by stone,
though I never was the strongest structure.
One day she's going to wind up all alone,
and now all I can say is just "fuck her."

Soon it should be over,
we'll be saying our goodbyes,
'cause we've both been getting older,
with heavy bags under our eyes.
Soon this will be over,
and now I'm counting down the hours,
'cause I feel I no longer even know her,
but I'll still remember to bring her flowers.

Blood is supposed to be thick,
it's supposed to mean forever,
or at least how as long as you can take.
Blood is supposed to always stick,
it's something you should always remember,
even if the blood type shows up fake.

You're tearing me down brick by brick,
you're waiting just to see me fall.
I'm collapsing in, oh so quick,
I hope you didn't expect me to stall.

Patrick Jul 13

A terrifying breeze cut through the night like nails against a chalkboard. The boy felt the gust as he stood in the field, stalks of grain tickling his hands as they swayed in this breeze. The boy didn’t try to describe this breeze and neither will I. This breeze has destroyed empires, broken men of stone, shattered diamonds. The boy stood in his field. He felt this breeze and dropped to his knees. He sat with his rear in the soil, his hands on his knees, and head between these hands --  and he sobbed. The slate had been wiped clean. He was free from his past, yet -- he needed this past. It was his identity, and here he was, a slave broken from his bonds, terrified of the freedom waiting for him in the north lands. He wanted to stay in the desolate fields of despair, walking with the ghouls haunted by their pasts. Cutting open old scars with rusty razorblades, cursing the bodily functions that healed them, cursing time for dampening the angry flame raging inside them. The boy no longer belonged to these ghosts, these lost souls wading in their own blood for eternity. A slice of fear gashed open his soul. The poisonous blood running through his veins spilled out before him. He felt the vain of holding onto the past, how beautiful the world really was once you gave it a chance.
Give it a chance, son.

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