i'm hungry,
i think it comes with the loss of blood.

inhaling the fumes of bleach, choking for air,
the blood has to be hidden.

my brain is still wandering to the fridge,
mentally deciding what to eat.

scrubbing with a blue sponge,
rinsing it too out with bleach.

the blood's still fresh and my wrists sting,
as i wrap them with my trademark bracelet.

stretching, i stand, peering intently at the white,
amused by how well the clorox can hide the pain.

now where's my sandwich?