Painted Wrists

The sucking intensity of pain, grappling for a hold 
on my bleeding heart,
tears creep up from my eyes,
even now I must blink rapidly to keep them down.
My pale wrists stare glaringly white,
begging for color,
perhaps a few clean strips of red,
running across, strands of crimson velvet,
pooling then dripping like a near dry river gasping 
it's last breath of water.
Blue veins lying sweetly, innocently as if they don't know,
they carry my lifes blood through my body,
black and brown like the tears that never come.
The heat still surrounds my only it's the heat of hell,
I know failry well that of which is caused by unsolicited love....
what do to?
In my mind,
a razor cleanly cuts, cleanly, softly,
my wrist is a canvas, and my the razor my paintbrush,
yet I only paint in but in color red.
And in my mind no one comes to save me,
nay, for only I can save myself,
and no support for my fallen heart,
helps quite little in this part,
I scream silently, but no tears come. 

Main Page: "no one should be afraid....of who they are"