The book that writes itself in ink and blood,
Every page a confession, every truth a flood.
I sit with my demons, they whisper in sighs,
Eccentric lullabies woven in dreamy lies.
I kissed the ineffable, tasted its flame,
A suspicious kind of heaven that never had a name.
The spine of the story is crooked and bent,
There’s perfume and poison staining my dress,
The book that writes itself—oh, it knows my sin,
Every letter a scar carved deep within.
I’d bleed out again just to see it in red,
To feel something real being inside I’m already dead.