I Will Not Write About My Misery.

I will not write about my misery.

I will not write about the images

that I cannot evict from inside my brain.

I want to think of delicate flowers,

not the delicate skin torn by my blade.

I will not write, I will not think of blood;

I will not tear myself apart for this,

Not when I can write of beauty, of love.

I love you even though your are not real

because if I cannot find a lover

about whom I can write, then all is lost,

even if I write a work of fiction.

If i cannot remind myself that life

is more than just the blood, the endless blood,

it will pour from my veins until I choke,

until I must swallow it or it me,

until red is not love but pain and death.

If I must drown, would that I drown in love,

in your laughter, in your smile, in you.

So what if it is purely fantasy?

You keep me alive, and that is enough.