Meet me in the middle of a blank page in our book. Meet me where our story is not yet written.
The previous pages are already colored by permanent pigment and etched in stone. They are not erasable. You cannot burn them or rid yourself of them without destroying me. They are forever imprinted in my memory. All we can do is remember and forgive the mistakes we have made.
So, please, meet me in the middle of this blank page where the words are not yet written, and we can write our own story's course.

The world rejects me
tastes then spits me out
such a bitter texture on the tongue
I have been given the ability
to understand & argue
both sides of an issue
might just be a symptom
of my fickle disease
I am a toy in life's childish hands
spreading sneezes
as it shares me with the other worlds

sunset blood drains
from transient clouds
as the bone-white moon
hangs in haughty defiance
over a jaundiced prairie

and as the life-giving sun
descends into its earthly grave
centuries of ghosts
whisper their hollow secrets
on the northern wind

they speak only of yesterday
amid the coagulating darkness
having long forgotten
the radiant life of today
and the promise of tomorrow

Cuts, cuts everywhere
All over my hands, my wrists, my arms.
Bleeding, bleeding.

Thick dark drops of blood.
Blurring my vision, clouding my mind.
Oozing, oozing.

The cuts dig deeper
Into my soul, my shattered soul,
Bleeding, oozing.

Just one more cut to end it all
A deep cut, digging into my throat, to end it all
And my throat shall bleed with my last drops of blood.

No more cuts
No more cuts
No more oozing and bleeding
No more dark red smudges in my mind
Just black
and black
and black.