spilled blood

I have the sudden need for blood to spill. My own of course. If I could peel my face off for a while, like a beauty salon mask, and let my insides drip out I might actually be a happy girl. Gather those beautiful drops of blood together and make a painting, write a note, draw a pretty little picture. But I'm afraid I could not stop there. Nope, the release would feel so good that I would just go a little further and let my neck breathe. Damn. Well there's no harm in giving my chest a little air. Fuck. Now I'm naked muscles all exposed and tingling in the cool breeze, bloody footprints in my wake. OK, so not really footprints more like small puddles of blood and whatever else kind of liquid we all got sloshing around inside of us.

But I digress.

I'm tempted to go out into the world like this. Fuck you if my bare bones disturb you. (Oh yes, did i tell you? Funny thing. Turns out if you start picking at your insides they start to unravel) But really what does it matter? My skin and fat and muscles are all a lie anyway. What is the truth? Ok here is goes BIG reveal! The truth is...umm, the truiest true truth is...I don't know.  I feel like everything inside of me is going to explode and my skin is the only thing stopping the bomb. So here I am just a skeleton. No skin, no blood, no musclestissuestendonsfiberscells. TOTALLY EXPOSED AND EMPTY. But somehow my heart still beats. That litlle fucker just won't die.