How do you justify the blood on your hands when there is no cut on your body. It doesn't dry out when you set your palms ablaze and it doesn't rinse off when you scrub it till it hurts. You wonder if they see it too while you dance with your hands swaying in the air. Its dripping from your fingers but your shirt doesn't smear when you button it. Your mother's sheer terror as she watches you scream at your bare hands. The blood is a souvenir only explicit to your gaze. A reminder of all the killings of your own soul. How you clipped your own wings everytime you wanted to fly. Crumpled notes to self lie on your untouched desk. Hoarding was never your feat but the torn papers cling to the lone piece of your soul like you clung to your pet's lifeless form.
A chilling shriek escapes your mouth at the late awakening. The waking doesn't liberate you. It binds you to the stain, a silver threaded cage and the shredded papers, elegies to your dead selves.
-deeya