Bloody Stumps

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My nail beds crack at the seams as they hold on for hope–merely clinging to life itself. Bloody good for nothing stumps they are, attached at my delicate wrists.

The faint painting of a light pink rose and galaxy hold my pulse in place, effortlessly. From my wrists blood flows up through my dark heart, placing pressure, anger, pressure, anger.

It’s moments like these I can’t understand why I’m alive. Is it merely for torture at the expense of an angry god? Is it to make me more stronger than I already am from my various trials and tribulations?

The rope is tight and ripping just right, underneath the palms of my feet–a tight rope. Standing still or stepping forward, standing still or stepping forward? Either way the other shoe is about to drop and I’ll be falling through oblivion. Elevate kindness, reap sorrow. Elevate kindness, reap destruction. Elevate kindness, reap rejection. Elevate kindness, reap isolation.

Put me in a padded room and I’ll tear through every white piece of fabric in that room. Put me in a straight jacket and I’ll rip myself out of one. Put me on an island and I’ll swim out to the sunset. Put me on a plane and I’ll be drunk and on some benzos. Put me on a mountain and I’ll contemplate how high and how long the jump. Put me in the middle of the ocean and you’ll feel how lonely I am.

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