No one else could possibly understand
this work. My poem is a reflection of me. But which me is the real one? I am I.
Am I the I that you see? No, that I that is in your eyes is not the I that I am.
I painted my nails black today. They look intense, like glittering anti-diamonds
adorning my fingers. Nobody else will ever know, I will stay locked in my room.
Kurt stares down at me from those barren walls. I know he understands this beautiful
feeling inside, a feeling that angels themselves must know when their wings are
shorn off. Yes, that is the feeling that I feel, I and no one else. Nothing can
compare. You won't understand.
The blood, it
Drips from my arms.
A wound in my chest
A song in my heart
The song of knives
The song is death
The song is end.
The rays of sunlight
Turn to dust.
A crown of thorns
Around my head
Who would say?
They judge without understanding.
Every man
Every woman
Inside them is nothing.
The only reality is the beast.
The beast who shouted "I"
At the heart of the universe.
You can't see me.
The exquisite deaths
Every night I die
In dreams, awake.
Only my pain is real.
This girl, alone.
The stigmata runs cold in her hands.
The skull of an angel
Worn as a crown.
This was my tragic intense. What you know are these words, what you can never know is the pain inside. Mine is a dark path of redemption. Good nyght.
