• Yanking out hair is fistfuls

    As it drifts to the ground

    Severing it off now

    Rapidly

    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