the TWENTY NINTH of AUGUST, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY.

i think guts adorn wounds so prettily.
soft, plush and glistening.
sticky and slick and so fucking gorgeous.
i'm not sure why the sight is so appealing,
all i know is i want to plunge myself into the endless scarlet.
i find so much beauty in mutilation and decay.
i was once told the way i mutilate myself is the most beautiful thing about me.
torn up flesh, it's not mine. it was never mine.
preparation, perhaps. reminders, hints.
it's all erased in the end. pure again.

take me back!