Brooding Knife

My heart is upside down,
the ground seems to scowl.
In my head I'm not alive,
sun disentegrates, it's companion arrives.

I brood over the depth of my skin,
how deep my blade will kill.
Sickened by the emptiness of existence,
wrinkled bloody frowns devour excuses.

The blade stutters cynically in my ear,
vein branches circulate tides of fear.
Disconnected from the atmosphere,
permeated with echoes of lovely drear.

I can't believe I'm doing this again,
my withered eyes choked on the reasons,
for my weakness asked, "This isn't fair,
why should I give you air?"

So lame the spectrum of pretentiousness,
this addiction fractures my innocence.
The knife lay mourning on my breast,
piercing heavier than the sin in my breath.

The wine streaming down my wrist,
is the only warmth I know exists.
Liquid ruby crystallizes into cicatrix,
I wear my scars like a bracelet.