"Scarlet Ink"

I hate me.

As I write my words of self-hatred

in my bathroom mirror,

I fantasize

about scrawling them, bold as screams, in scarlet ink

upon these magnolia walls:

the scarlet ink

of my blood.

Just because - I can - and why the hell not?

Should I add names?

I would love to add names,

just to externalise

the obsessions,

that live in my mind,

as I slowly die:

people who have hurt me,

are hurting me still,

and don't even care.

Is there

an end

to the

torture

that is

my existence?