Sitting on the dusty attic floor,
I whittle away at my skin.
The moon shining through the window,
The house utterly silent,
As my blood splatters upon the cakes of dust,
That blanket molding floorboards.
The moon is my light,
As I numbly work the piece together,
My lovely piece of art.
The carving of my flesh;
There is no pain in my wrists,
Just the feeling of frost-bite easing into my veins.
No one knows,
No one will hear,
I won't let screams pass my lips.
Glimmering like ruby droplets in the silvery moon beams.
My lips quiver as I observe my mangled flesh,
The dripping kitchen blade,
I slowly watch the drops fall,
The scent rancid and sweet,
Consumed in want for a taste,
I can almost hear my reflection in the old mirror, whispering,
Let it destroy you...
Gently, I lift the bloodied knife to my trembling wrists,
I lick the flat of the blade.
Richness stings on my tongue,
And I feel as if my capillaries are frozen,
Then the clock in the corner ticks on.
I admire my work,
Will be horrifying,
They'll hate me for it.
But then I don't know if the completely care.
I'll probably bleed empty.
The floorboards have soaked most of the crimson fluid,
It no longer shimmers from the moon's light,
It has almost morphed into a sweet,
I want the silent darkness so much,
I want to drink down the stark sky.
I could use it to seal my wounds with black,
My deadly tattoos.
And I cannot even tremble.
My cloathes are drenched,
My matted heait dripping with redness.
The can't see my like this.
I crawl away from the mirror,
I don't want to see the image they would scorn,
Even though it's warped with dust.
The dirt and grime magnetizes my flowing blood,
Like being caught in a spider's web.
The dust makes me feel like and old china doll long put away,
Without a box,
From the loss of my blood,
My skin has become so pale.
I hear wind beating at the house.
The windows shake with the force,
The moonlight shifts with rattled trees,
And my eyes are drawn to the black blood stain,
In the rotten wood,
All the dust has seemed to run away from it and the idle splatters.
I stare at my designs,
Most jagged and brutal,
Blood had hardened into gore,
But beads up at the edges,
I feel the fore around my lips.
I cannot hide here forever.
I don not need to show my face til the morning comes,
I'll pretend I'm invisible in the dusty darkness...