"darling, please do not hate anyone, 

no matter what they have done to you. 

we all have flesh and bones, 

we all bleed the same."

my mother told me that a few years ago. 

i told her i wouldn't.

now,

i hate myself.

i hate what i have done to myself.

i hate that i rip open my skin

just to feel anything at all,

but the blood that drips out is not the same

as the blood in your own veins

because its mine.

it's tainted with bottles of sleeping pills

and alcohol dreams.  

it rolls down my arm 

just like drunken watercolors on a canvas.

drip.

drip.

drip.

my blood is the proof

of how disgusting i am to my body.

don't you dare tell me we all bleed the same,

because my crimson nightmare

keeps the secrets inside of it

that i don't have the courage to admit

and those things only come out

with a blade.

although we all have blood,

we do not all bleed the same,

and i will say this until my lungs collapse.

Your heavenly fingertips traced my arms, creating cracks like lightning bolts, letting the sunlight from my soul shine through the moonlit room. The way your lips molded with mine made me feel like art; they painted me with soft colors everywhere, splattering me with lilac and blue, but not the kind that my father gave me when I was younger after he had too much to drink, it was different that time. Now that you left I need to do that again, I need to be complete, because how can an artist not come back to finish his work?