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I get to leave the ward tomorrow night. I'm being taken out to a nicer place, where I can bathe, and play with kittens. I arrive back sunday afternoon around 4:30, hopefully with my work in hand, prepared and rejuvinated. I'm trying to let my nails grow back, but I keep biting them down. Spots are fading, along with scars. My nights have been terrible, tossing and turning, waking up, drenched in sweat, too tired to get up and so, I fall back asleep. I don't find comfort in anything anymore, the word scares me too much. In light of my bad nights, I bring for you, what I call, Two Blood Poems:

Gore

Blood, blood oh how you run.
Down my arms, from my mind,
They don’t see how your fun.

You give me a high, as if to say
“You don’t really want to die,
let me give you a rush; so divine.”

So I see how you work,
how you slur and stir.
Your no good for me sir,
please don’t lurk; I’m sure.

So I try, and I cry.
I want you to leave.
I need a machine
to keep you away from me;
please.

Just go, and leave me be,
I want to be free
I want to see
How you’d be without me.

So you kicked and I swore;
my sweet drop of gore.
I adore;
L’amour.



Waiting for Blood

Waiting for blood is simply unkind.
Its redness that gives, a life so divine.
Yet somewhere down deep,
the loss so serene
waiting for blood,
or wasting nine lives?