Cut me deep. So deep that my blood begins relying on you for air. Cut me so deep that once you see the dark color of my blood appear rushing out of my wound, that you use it as the ink to write your story.
Use the Pen of My Blood, to paint the picture of your life, while excluding mine from it. The only thing that remains mine, is the darkening ink on the paper, and what is truly yours is your signature that reveals itself with the color of the paper.
And that is the only line you wrote in my blood. But write more, write more. Let me see if the shade of this paper is truly white, or if I am fooled by the hands that are painting this picture. Do not paint anymore, my love, but write.
Let the white shade of the paper reveal your true colors, and let those words be the contrast to my blood. The opposite; like war. Like I, meant to you everything, yet nothing. Write with the color of my pain, but show yours through the shade of the paper.
YOU ARE READING
You Who Knows Best
PoetryThis is a series of love poems written by me. "May we meet where the eye can find its rest, And where our hearts beat for each other, even outside of our breasts."
