i return to this
to express what is in my heart
-- it is blood.
this essence of life drips from me, as the symbolic expression of
everything within.
to exist, i want it to stay inside me.
to live, i need it to pour out.

this sharp implement is a weapon,
-- i use it to draw words, like blood;
to release the built pressure of cyclical confinement
into freedom;
to spill this substance
for the sake of survival,
sanity,
and some sort of sick, strict joy.
i carve out my pain
and trust that layers will hold these thoughts
as scars, if i press hard enough
and let whatever comes out, come out.

again and again, i leave my marks:
stains on a fleshy membrane,
able to mimic the easy flow; the rich-red color; the oddly sweet, bitter taste
of my internal composition.