I don't see any blood,
But I can see myself bleeding.

They say suffering
Is an act
Of beauty in itself.

That when you see blood--
It is not blood.
But ink to swirl your pen in,
Penning the tragedy of you

You with your ruby blood.
You with your paper skin.

My fingertips roam over my floor,
And Im breathing coal.

Tell me how this is beauty?
Tell me how this destruction
Will make me worthy.
For my story to be immortalised
Forever in the minds of fools

I shouldn't have to self destruct
To make history.
The blood spilling from me
Should not deem me worthy of admiration

e.i