• Yanking out hair is fistfuls
    As it drifts to the ground
    Severing it off now
    I grasp my lipstick
    But my hands quiver
    I start defiling my face with it
    Then things resume in my head
    Things unsought to remember
    Us mutually in that room
    You're settled on the floor
    Staring at me
    With that fruitless stare
    The floor is tinted, bittersweet
    There is a candied scent of blood
    It fills the room
    Enters my lungs
    As I hyperventilate
    Gasping for air from what I've done
    The smell enters you as well
    Yet you show no dismay
    Though it is your blood you smell
    You're a blighting corpse
    Belonging with the deceased