• You look at the red tent in my eyes
    There bloodshot, we both know it.
    You're staring again, at the red tent in my eye's
    I dare you to look at me, and not the blood red that hides behind a film of white and hazel.
    However we move on, you question I answer, and we continue. The day ends, the red is no longer in my eyes.

    The next day comes you stare at the blood on my lips, from biting so hard that skin could not withstand teeth. Flesh ripped, vessels with it. Minor, but enough to soak my tounge with mitalic iron. But I wash my mouth clean the blood is gone again. It is no longer on my lips.

    You know its there, but you never see the blood, from where I carved my message in my skin. I do well to hide what I do. You never caught me when I would write my hatred out in blood. Why would you. I wouldn't let you. Because the disappointment is enough, the misplaced guilt, and the desperation I cause you is enough. But if I asked, you to look at me and not the blood, would you?