can't explain this one. wrote it ages ago. phycopathic writers and whatnot ran riot one night as my muses, freaky I know.
*!*
Ink in my veins
You don't know where I've come from. I mightn't be a writer. I could be a tyrant; a dark creature, so terrible and horrifying you'd only come across me in nightmares. But you're certain, blatantly certain, with my gentle eyes and musical voice, that I'm nothing but a sensitive writer; fallen helplessly in love with you. You're certain enough of that to lie here in my arms; head on my chest, sleeping like a baby.
Is that so amazing?
I could reach for a knife, couldn't I? Reality is I certainly could, I could have a blade hidden in the pocket of my discarded clothes and I could use it to paint my fingers with your precious blood. It's a horrible thought isn't it? I'm cursing myself for thinking about it, in fact I've frightened myself thinking that I could be capable of doing such a thing to beautiful, precious you. Your breath is almost silent as you sleep, I find that amazing; it tells me you're calm, you feel safe and secure. It amazes me that you're so sure that you are.
Ink in my veins
Am I the first writer you've fallen in love with? Am I the first man you've fallen in love with? You weren't willing to surrender to my love for you, which made me think that perhaps you've loved and been burned before? Did my predecessor turn out to be a villain? Was he the creature so dark and horrifying, the creature from nightmares? Perhaps he thought the same thoughts as me; fingers and faces painted with your blood and perhaps he carried out that thought? I've seen the scars on your belly, below your ribs, long and thin; just like those of a blade.
Where did it come from?
I wish I could sleep tonight, like you are. Soundly and peacefully, dreaming dreams of faraway places. Yet you still move in your sleep, perhaps things disturb your dreams. Every now and then you hold me tighter for a few moments then relax again; like bracing yourself for a storm to come and go. You don't feel things when you sleep; I caress your face and kiss your shoulder and you never move, when you sleep you're detached from the world. Does that mean you wouldn't feel it if I touched a blade to your skin? Would you wake up later and find a bloody wound and wonder, where did it come from?
Ink in my veins
You woke up before I'd even pulled the silver blade from it's case. I could never erase the look on your face when you saw what I was doing. It almost made me want to shatter and crack into a million pieces onto the floor. Betrayal, fear, anger; they were all mixed together in a violent swirl in your eyes, those beautiful blue eyes. You hold the sheet tight around you, as if it's the one thing that will sufficiently protect you from me. You ask me, in a petrified voice, what am I doing? Is their ink in your veins, my darling? Like there is in mine?
What a disaster!
One long, thin line. That's all I did. One long thin line I carved with my tiny blade across the hollow of your back. You wailed and cried the whole time. Shh darling, it doesn't hurt that much, I said, I was holding you down, you could've suffocated against the pillows. Shh, Satine, just a little bit, that's all. I cooed, I couldn't believe how much you were crying. No ink in your veins, just red, sticky blood; what a disaster.
Ink in my veins
You must've been screaming loudly, because that male dancer; Chocolat I think he's called, appeared. Fuck off! I yelled at him, I admit I sounded frightening and sinister, the sheets were now red and blotted in places and you continued to cry, always crying! Why won't you stop? Glass shattered and things were cast and thrown onto the floor as Chocolat dragged me from the room.
Love's driven me crazy!
I won't think anymore, from the moment I was thrown out into the street, I decided never to ponder or wonder to myself again. Thoughts are dangerous to me. I am dangerous, there is a horrific and terrible creature inside me that you only see in nightmares. Lovesick poet gone wrong is what I was, is what I am. Amusing, how reoccurring thoughts can ruin you. Blood on my fingers, blood on my arms, I'm sorry darling, so sorry.
Ink in my veins
I thought I'd destroyed you. I thought that thin and long scar I left on your back would remind you forever. I didn't think you'd ever fall in love again, how could you? I appeared to you as the gentlest and kindest person, and yet look what I did to you. Ink in my veins, I said, I thought you'd be petrified of writers after me.
Now there's no danger
You did fall in love again, eventually. With a writer of all people. How, how could that have happened? With your experience with me, a writer, it is natural to think you would've distanced yourself from poets and novelists of the sort. I suppose you've got a taste for them, writers that is. I heard you mistook this one for a Duke? Is he like me? Gentle and kind? I've heard you two are drowning in love for each other. But be wary Satine, writers have imaginations; my imagination harmed you, his could too.
Ink in my veins