Dear you

Dear you in the darkness, dear you at the razors edge, dear you with the dying heart.

Hear me and head me, or maybe not. In calmness and stillness I draw the blood myself.

The blood that drips and drops and slithers through me and over me. Red, slippery, coppery.

Life so small, so bright so red . . . My heart beat taking me away.

I feel the death, I feel the sting, I feel the fear.

Blinding.

Blinding in the light, and darknes. I sit very still, waiting to die. But I don’t.

Dear darkmes, I can not feel your hand in my throat. Gasping for air as you tighten your grip.

I want the pain, I want the blood, I want the warmth of your self inside me.

Drip, drip, drip . . . Red and red and black mad sharp. How sharp? So sharp I won’t feel a thing.

But I will feel it. I am numb.

I slide the razor through my arm, a thin red line. A thin. Red line.

The pulse slowly, slowly and then. Them the warmth of death and Dear You, my darkness. My darkness with your tongue between my legs.

 

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