He cannot say that blood is ghastly
Not when he sits with his forearms ripped and bleeding
He hates the color red but somehow finds it beautiful when coming out from wounds
He sways his arms over flower beds of white roses an attempt to mimic Alice's "we can paint the roses red" but he doesn't want to paint he wants to vandalize
But vandalism it is not,
He is not destroying
He is creating
He thinks that the blood is dirty when kept inside and I suppose this is also why he takes showers every hour with open veins
To see blood mix with water to become less dirty
Dilute the blood, it might be thicker than water but water breaks bonds the way he breaks down in the shower
and he stands with his arms towards the ceiling in surrender, the blood slides from the forearm to his feet
He likes seeing red become pink then clear then he is somehow
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Not Quite, Midnight | poems
Poetry~she sets out to write for herself but casts a line from her ship of lunatics in case there was someone adrift trying to read along.
