It never truly leaves me, it simply waits for nightfall and the days where smiles end
It never truly changes, the sound made when blood drips from a cut with the steady ticking of a clock hand
Years, even decades can fly by, life seems to scream on at an unyielding pace
A mirror, a face, the same but older
Dark circles under bloodshot eyes, red like the angry marks on skin tanned in the desert sun
Perhaps war is what is best for a man who feels nothing
Though I experience pain, and loneliness, the soul-crushing pressure of numbness floods me
I know her face, she is the one thing that causes a failing, silent heart to flutter and pound
But here, half a world away, can it be enough?
Should it be enough?
Scars of darker times trace their way across my skin, memories of times that seem long past
But are they?
Besides the old, sit the newer, raw pink marks of blades drawn with passion across unfeeling flesh
To feel is worth the price, paid in blood and the secret shame, the fear of discovery
I still consider it, what might happen should I go just slightly deeper
I would relish the pain, to hurt is to truly be alive it seems