White and Crimson Scribbles
My crimson scribbles; there is no meaning, there is no feeling, and there will be no healing, not today at least…
Horizontal, never vertical for some reason. I cannot explain, though reasoning is out of my control: deadly even, hopefully. Perhaps there is an ease to holding the handle of serrated metal, of ragged glass or the like?
The pain Is paradoxical; the smarting, endorphin rush of anesthesia.
The trickling red hurts more than the gash; it feels cold and lifeless and not mine. Like a scrawling ladder to the skies. Climbing out from hell; heaven is out of reach, it always has been, always will be.
Skin scrawled with crimson doodles like a child drawing with crayons churning out thoughts onto paper into only waste. Watching mesmerized a river splitting into streams, splitting into tributaries, like the pulsing veins underneath; the source of the vehement flow. There is not enough to reach a sea, not so much as a puddle; maybe next time?
A back door out of life- the sharp key turns in the biological lock, no emotions seem concerned, no tears are bothered.
Thoughts atrophied, nothing. The door might as well be open… Must hide my angry looking smiles smirking at my paroxysm, my relief, my failed attempt at experiencing what it might feel like to live in human skin- if just for an hour. Sympathy is not what I crave, but deliverance? Quite possibly…
They won’t stop laughing at me, they won’t stop dribbling: not for some time. Itchy fingers are frenzied to pick; eventually they leave alone, the scab has sewn the cellular fabric closed. They have found another interest, their sadistic addiction..
The crimson scribbles turn sallow: frozen in time, their derision everlasting. Bastards have had the last laugh
My white scribbles; there is some meaning, there is some feeling, and there will be some healing, today at least…
Copyright © Matt Price | Year Posted 2023
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