Venice Craven

These are not the words of a poet. But then again, I have never claimed to be one. By my mouth, words mutilated. By my hand, flesh sundered. By my breath, hearts bleed.

My fingers are bloodied. Figuratively as much as literally. More so than any Commander that has sent a nation to war. More than any King that has watched a nation starved whilst he sat on thrones of gold. I watch now the thin rivulets of blood cross curve around my fingers, each drop taking a different path till my palm is painted red. The pain of the grazes and the gashes and the cuts not even felt any more. I wish I could feel it, a part of me linking the desire and need for pain with the peace that inflicted punishment brings.

My nails tap against the edge of the bowl, the sides slick from the streams of blood that run down to collect within. Careful to avoid tainting the sheets and bedding, but not quite careful enough my eyes say as they spy a few drops. I'll have to see to that tomorrow says the logical part of my mind, distant and not quite connecting to the actions and the emotions and the horror and the stress.

Where are you now..?