and cut, and cut,
In upon my flesh.
To expose my internal organs,
to blinded eyes,
Wearing rose-tinted glasses.
How can I find myself here,
in blood and gut?
To know myself when there is so much to explore.
I am more than layers,
thicker than blood,
And running like jelly across a foreign landscape.
If I press a knife to my heart,
how much will I bleed?
And how far will that wound rip?
And if I cannot find my power source,
lose sight of it,
Am I still alive?
I have cut,
and cut, and cut, and cut...
