Birth my pain into a ball,
The very inner red of me,
Laid out on table,
My creation,
My death,
My,
Words,
Pittar patter,
Like the blood that bleeds,
My heart, a swollen papaya,
Forgiveness my curse and gift,
Lies weaved through bodies,
The silence embodying the wind,
Wrapped around the threads that paint this brown skin,
Burnt,
Cut ties from me,
Dug my grave without telling me,
Left with no explanation,
Satanic child with no bed to sleep on,
The wings of my questions hover over,
Like birds flocking,
I wonder what type of sinner I must be,
To have loved so hard that the pulp of my broken heart,
Still bled and travelled across oceans,
To fight for the blood that formed the good in me,
I inked myself into papers,
Attempted to take my life,
But still threw myself into the paper,
Which rejected me,
In the name of love,
If amnesia was a gift,
Wrap it in ribbons,
The happiest of people I would be,
Gift me with forgetting,
In that which is plastered into the hollows of my ribs,
My inner workings,
Free from the memory.
Yet without it,
I am nothing,
Noone,
It has become diseased,
This grief grew gruesome,
I am dying silently,
So I am running to the Sun now,
To at least keep me warm,
During this final Period.