paper cut
that whitest white, cuts blood; the purity of a paper cut flick into the whites of my eyes; for a second i cried for you, i would worship; but then i remember, you walk on two legs too; you say the mirror is where you realise that the knife is cursed; but i have plunged…
hangman
don’t look to me like that; accusation, the fall—my fault; don’t you dare tell me, that i had swiped the jewels unprompted, don’t you tell me that grace had slipped off in my presence; you stand on your books, as i do mine and you—are holding the hangman’s rope in your own hands
looked
why, you say? I have looked at your hearts, and on a whim, i will be on my hands and knees, on a whim, i will have wrists thinner than twigs, on a whim there will be mud caked on my heels, on a whim, blood, blood—
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MindWraith 