I remember grinding my hand away,
pulling blood through the skin.
Sharp, cold air and autumn clouds
came roaring in their stasis;
my eyes were not on them,
but on the sanguine sacrifice.
'Beloved' is a curse on me,
tied in fetters to my name.
For someone as empty as I,
the word itself is frozen water.
As silence thrummed and pulsed,
I tore until crimson was my pillow,
until my bed was rose-red loss.
I tore until my voice was nothing
more than a rotten wooden cross.
And still, my memory brings me low,
slices through like jagged shards
into my flesh and bone.
And still, I try to bring it back,
as if I have control.
Years and years of a wordless slide;
one day swollen with rain and ice.
The sadness that creeps into me
is the same as when I found her there.
It stabs with the same ferocity,
bleeds as though it never stopped,
and fills me with a shaking hand.
And now, I have nothing else
but emptiness: Luridity.
I have died a hundred times
from living in this skin.
I have cut a thousand ropes
that pulled me near to him.
What I have left is waving glass,
a mirror carved of worthlessness.
What I have left is the lack of reach,
the lack of what I have.
I am delicate, but razor-sharp;
penultimate, but with no end.
And here, I feel the winter coming
to freeze my soul in ice.
Here, I see my own decay:
The endless, faithless night.
No one will ever know what I have seen,
nor what it's done to me.
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