The Lost Tourniquet.

From my fistful of vesper, the expiring day seeps,
I twitch in my skin as my wounds wail and weep.
The cruel gashes went far too deep.

Warm blood drenches the white sheet,
On which I daily made love to sadness.
Today the knife and I are ready to sleep.

The distant church bells chime,
Those bastards all preach blasphemy
The promised messiah isn’t beside me in my hour of grief,
And the prince of peace expects me to muster up belief.

My deceased, diseased mind seeks no help.
Let the crimson flow,
My head aches, miraculously no more,
My soul parched with sin, instead abhors.

The fresh pink flesh peeps out through
Skin and bone, through my teary eyes I smile,
I am pleased once more.

Limp like dead
The arm lay and bleed, first tiny droplets of blood appeared,
Trickles,
Drips,
Spurts,
And then with a final surge the blood an ocean smeared.

I’m dieing, I’m dieing to survive;
; Survive to slash
; Survive to lash
; Survive to butcher my flesh, my wrist, my god-damned life.

You say you love me,
Why then am I so cold.
The racing, alive pulse in my veins is gradually stopping, wilting, fading.

I’ll never grow old.

You did not help to stop me.
You could not help me.
You should have stopped, helped and saved me.

Numb I fade as my sinews weaken; I drop from my clutch the red hot blade.
Never to awaken, but on a crimson carpet laid.
My unhappiness and I drown in my tub of wrath.
Instead appears the muted shades of ever lasting hallucinated thoughts.

The clairvoyant in me foresees a shadow.
I slip into a sleep, a final much needed slumber.
Rescued from insomnia, saved from drugs,
I hug death, like my first blanket.