There's a singing wound upon my hand,
obtained from a skirmish with rose bushes.
A row of sopranos upon my right arm
await their turn,
altos sing melody this time.

I've always admired blood’s crimson shade
if that makes me a sinner,
so be it.

If writing my sincerest feelings upon sheets
then wrapping myself in them
inspires me to be a ghoul, so be it.

Had wanting happiness splashed across my face,
like freckles kissed on the flesh from strobes of the sun-
makes me naive, so be it.

God thinks all suicidal individuals have an
impeccable sense of humor,
so be it.
Satan is bound to believe he's the one to drive
someone to commit suicide,
“he becomes more powerful”

So be it.