I am sublime.
And I disappear into mist when an arrow pierces into me or a sword digs out my bowels.
I have felt the world go numb under my feet from a string of words,
And have felt the gushes of wind screech my skin in the cold ravines of despair because of a mere partage of lips.

I am always at war within myself,
And I have felt my world inside to be more kind to me than the world outside.

My blood doesn't belong to me.
It never did.
And my heart is growing morose with the ire of pumping this fluid through my veins.

I talk in metaphors because naked words are too intimate for a bashful me,
It's like holding a candle to an already naked heart.

No.

I would rather remain in dark.
Sombre was my saviour,
The pen my sword,
Words my confidant.

A macabre world is not fit for an already too burnt cinder.
The gruesome and unearthly urge to cut myself, cut my cord, cut all connections from this ghastly world.
This urge eats at me like a wild parasite all day and...