suprrninja

And the red will flow onto white perenially, and the thump of blood rushing will never stop. Forget forget forget, its like an eternal struggle, its like a constant in my mind, like a sticky note in neon pink or some other nu rave colour that drives me up the wall. I want to put everything I’m feeling in ink, on paper, anywhere that will leave its permanent mark - in the hopes that it will replace what I’m feeling in my heart, so that the suffering will cease. But I’m afraid there wouldn’t be enough paper, nor enough ink, nor space, to fill everything in my heart. Maybe all I need to do is skip the paper and ink, and cut my heart out, slice it into pieces, paste it all over the walls, covering it like wallpaper. Red red red, a colour of anger, a colour of passion.

And when the blood dries it will be black, black like scribbles of ink, black like your eyes, black like me.