Vents Hidden in Verse

it doesn't puncture.

A/N: this was from a while back but i never posted it. here y'all go, i think this is a pretty good piece. i'm very proud of this one but i'm just so afraid of what people will think about it. i'm fine, btw. i'm completely fine, as i'm here posting this months later.

TW: self-harm

written December 3rd, 2020.

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i take it against my skin.
it's not enough to puncture.
i drag it harder once more.

each threaded message snakes its way
through the wrinkles of my brain.
go on, sew yourself harder.
i could care less.

sharp. i take it against my skin.
it doesn't puncture.
just once. i needed to feel it just once.

see the bad blood, the crimson river
separating two sides, two banks
of hairy human flesh.
whether it flowed or just appeared.

the wound would be there
to remind me of the low.

standing there, trying to produce
a man-supplied water supply.
a thirst quencher
for any of my pale transylvanian friends

eyes meet eyes.
thin, almond-shaped outlines
encasing chocolate pupils.
i whisper, "you know i love you, right?"

it doesn't puncture.

instead of from skin, the river flows
from almond eyes.

hazes the vision,
hazes the mind's intentions.

good judgement shines like rays of sun
from behind a solar eclipse.
a black barrier holds it back.

the threads encase the muscle
hiding away inside of my head,
tightening and stealing away the oxygen.

dedication, dedication.
a lust, a craving for this release.

but it doesn't puncture.
i press.
it doesn't puncture.