Release

The room is a quiet thing
a silent white slate stoic, empty
And anything could be on its walls
everything could be
and everything would be

When the ink slides off my skin
and shatters into fractals of paint
raining across these walls
my past will finally die
and with it, the pain

It settled into my blood
the parts of me I could not wash
white walls closing in
and I fought back hard
i scared it away with the red
the shit i tried to tear out of my skin
to please a yearning inside my head

I only wanted the past to be dead
I needed the air beyond those walls
to let me breathe a final strength
that could let me know peace
and in that need I let it bleed
the tears, the red, the ink, the scars
my heart laid open in my very palms
shaking as I held its remnants
desperate to piece it back

Just let it go back

frantic i sewed the ends in dark thread
strickened, panicked, my head was light
my eyes saw only that red
that red-

my heart died in my hands

All i wanted was to be whole again
I wanted to see colors on clean slate
white walls needing personality
to escape the reality that awaited me
inside my head

And yet..
I killed myself instead