Tarantulas, spiders of jet black and electric-blue,

Formed from tears and mascara,

Streaks of blood form broken-heart tattoos,

Across my wrist, pulse pumping out blood.


The pages are black, red, blue and white pulp,

Soaked in ink-tears and blood,

Pulverised by anguished tantrums and madness.

The writing that lines them is lost in the mess,

Drowned in blood, beyond recognition.


As every page is torn away,

Like a petal ripped from a flower,

More of me dies,

And things that destroy me,

Live on, feeding from the poison.





The End

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