Pigments, the ink on my skin,
White as ivory,
Or a flesh of pink,
Or is it that chocolate brown
that sets your nerves on edge?
But sense is lost when bronze makes you chill.

Now tell me, when you spill my blood,
how does it smell?
You claim it a nasty tinge,
And I only wonder if it was your wound under your nose,
your blood, the source of that scent.

For mine is pure,
Not drowning in guilt,
Not sunk in madness,
Or a desperation to kill.

To speak the truth, I feel sorry for you,
For never before
had I come across a heart that cold.
And to live in its gaping hole
is a loneliness that swallows you whole.