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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

My eyes dart to the knife, then to my wrist.

I've been told my skin is orange, so why not make it red?

Red's a pretty colour.

Red, the colour of love and blood and lust.

I feel lust all the time.

I'll blame it on the teen age.

Or the sex deprivation.

Or the sick twistedness.

I also like blood.

Enough in the body and it keeps you alive.

Enough on the floor and your life is gone.

Love? How odd.

Is it a science or a society thing?

Are emotions now just science?

So all the bullshit we're feeling, all the help we need,

That's all just in a book?

We have to follow instructions or some shit in order to feel better?

So we're all robots working for a higher authority, is that right?

I hate Valentine's Day. 

It makes me jealous.

All the pretentiousness and soppy contrived bullshit, it makes me jealous.

Jealousy is green, right?

Green's also the colour of nature. So it's ok to feel jealous.

I'll continue wanting to hurt people whenever Valentine's Day comes then.

Cut them.

Make their skin, and the floor, and my hands a beautiful shade of red.

Submitted: April 02, 2021

© Copyright 2022 Jan Solo. All rights reserved.

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