pink - fever

! [ this poem was written in honor of the pink moon, and intends to be read as such ] !

! warning : internal - parts mentions !

- - - - -

i’ve yet to sew myself up again.

avoiding fixture like the plague, tending to my rotten thoughts spilling pressure 

and panic

my porcelain skin has worn out, parting ways, awaiting for the flesh beneath it to 

act as a veil

i’ve compelled myself to rid of my bones and those wails were a signal of sanity

my mascara and madness have leaked into absurdity, aswell as a dissected heart 

poor, deprived of any desire

yet my blood may hold comfort i long for, so regardless of expire, i endure it

i tend to, crave my amputation, only to find myself starving,

for the satisfaction i cannot taste.

my departure has yet to show, telling me to abandon my wounds

yet i’m unprepared, for my unimpaired parts may bid adieu torn from my grasp.

i question to the dear moon, “but when shall i be repaired ? this anguish cannot remain alive too long..”

her phase didn’t hold an answer, instead stained my brains and viscara her 

shade of pink.

perhaps once she accompanies earth’s stars again, i may return unspoiled.