Hatreds Of My Past

Have I been filled to long with life?
Striving to thrive in lost, black lunar light.
Putrid, rusted blade, you give me no comfort,
need I bleed out until I'm dry as a desert?

What calls me to this misunderstanding?
Surely I can fathom my death is my ending.
To reach for the rose, a rope fashioned nuse.
Plunged into my chest, a game I will lose.

Feature my features upon broad blood stains,
my sick mind cures me and it fuels my pain.
Perhaps a collapse would disable all my acts.
This dark in me, it has to be, a train wreck in the black.

These bruises don't stay silent and the cuts don't make any sense.
Blisters feeding routine and obsession that won't relent.
I feel compelled to tell you that you are me and that I am doomed,
But my tragedy will simply be that I die alone in my room.