When red stains in your bed finally scream out
the end you’ve always lived for—
will that day ever come? When the blackness
stops pumping blood through your veins,
when your heart stops bleeding
the razor edges of rusted blades, paper-thin
aspirations, mapped cuts screaming
their silent shout, thoughts of passing on
your darkness to nature, portents
of vultures overhead—will they ever happen?
They will never happen. There are tears
in the curtain you lowered; a knowing wind
would part it completely, and the light would peel off
the paint you darkened yourself with.
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