Satan taunting, beckoning me with a dead, hot finger
and promises of bliss.
Saturated my thoughts
Cool, clear, magic potion
When that juice soaks my veins,
the monster of my emotions comes alive
My tongue, so sharp, the cut may be imperceptible at first
Then the red beads, oozes
and that stinging pain attacks
My cuts are not intentional.
At least, not for me
The monster sees differently, feels differently, expresses differently
that skewed perception, born of sorrow and dead-ends,
intent on destruction
My cuts are not intentional.
I would heal them if I could.
04 May 2018