i've been meaning to write for a while now.
there are 4 drafts that weren't good enough. 4 letters to never be read because the person they're addressed to isn't ready to see the blood spilt on the page. and maybe it's a bit cliché to write in blood, but you took all the ink and left me with the quill.
what was i supposed to do?
you even took some of my blood. when we kissed the other night you bruised my lip. were you as lonely as i was? did you want to feel someone else bleed for once? because i don't blame you. if i was stronger i would've done the same thing.
do you stay awake till all hours wondering what your love is doing? do you ever miss holding them in the dark? do you ever miss the rush of blood to their cheeks when you told them how beautiful they were? i do. i miss everything about you. i miss you when we're in the same room. i miss you when your holding me against your breast. i miss you when your mouth is against mine because the person i once knew behind those lips is gone.
his heart shattered and bled dry. i know because i tried to put it back together once, but he told me not to. so i had to stop. because even though i was trying to put him back together the slivers were cutting deep and tearing me apart. but i didn't mind the pain.
i'm a masochist.
i'm willing to take on your pain at night, even if it means you won't tell me you love me in the morning. i'm nailing myself to your cross because i don't want you to scar. and the wine from your bottle spills onto my open wounds and i smile at the searing pain. you burn me with your cigarette bud and i gape in awe at the burn.
i gape in awe at the burn.
and i write in my own blood to tell you that i have loved every second of pain that you have given me.
and i write to tell you that i wouldn't have changed a thing.
so the next time you feel pain please call me and bring the lash, because i'd rather you hurt me than you hurt yourself.
love,
charles darnell
