I’m bleeding,
Yet, neither blade touched nor fire burned me,
But rather, deep inside,
My wounds are too infected
To let me die in peace.

Within this spherical chamber
A wistful light breaks through a crack,
Just a harbinger of shadows,
And ever I dwell in just such a chamber,
This place that has broken me in twain.

I despise the confines of my flesh,
This prison has eaten at me,
And I do so greatly desire
To rip, tear at it, misshape it,
So that it is not so subtle
In its destruction of my esteem.

I have held that precious heirloom,
Oh, I once had such a beautiful mind,
And oh! How I wish to be happy again,
To be ignorant and happy again.
But oh, that bleakest vision was granted me,
A sight of myself slowly dying.

My skin was merely a canvas
On which my blood was to paint,
Such an image of withering silence.
Lo! I feel the vital fluid upon me,
Yet I cannot see its crimson hue,
But my eyes have deceived me before,
Have lied to and mocked me before.

No matter, it is there,
I require not such a vision
To confirm my sanity;
I know it is there,
It’s always there,

I’m bleeding. . .