The blade takes its form as a melody in my ears;
Distorted strings finding their way into my flesh,
Replacing my veins with ferrous alloys,
Coiling their way into the walls of my heart
The blade takes its form as a drink slipping past my lips;
Bubbles and fruit break down my brain matter,
A liquid rush of rosy bliss,
Drowning my thoughts one by one
The blade takes its form as a dripping on sheets;
Tiny seeds scatter across my pillowcase,
Fingertips sticky with the soft flesh of a fig,
The taste is enough to pause the pain
The blade takes its form as a knife;
It tears through my skin, crushing my ferrous heart,
A sharp, solid rush of ruby relief,
And finally, my fingetips are sticky with something real