It's this damned subliminal messaging,

That constantly scratches the back of your conscious mind.

Your blood dries, and your skin rots in the sun;

Your fingers bleed in the hammering summer

of storms, pain, and death.

You write how love rots away

In the gray whispers of the storm,

and you let it go along gently.

You write about how love bleeds your skin,

and tattoos every word of his—

In the purple pain of nothingness.

You write about how you fall off the cliff

When the death roars black,

and everything else turns blank.

You write about the grey lifeforce in your blue veins—

Pulsating, stumbling, breathing shallowly.

You scratch your wrists crimson red and scream in disgust

and cry. Your story doesn't end at any point—

It goes along 'til your fingers stop bleeding in pain.