A shard of glass wedged deep under the skin,
red liquid oozing down paper so thin.
A bullet too close to the heart to remove,
A band-aid intended for good use.
Is this all that's left?
Is this what I've become?
A gnarled demon wearing the mask of the sun.
Malicous.
Vicious.
Don't get too close, I suggest you run.
Sucking the blood of its "friends",
Tearing out its own flesh,
There is no room for anyone else,
A putrid need for "me", "my", "myself".
I have always been broken.
