Wear your heart on your sleeve…a much harder thing to do when asked.

I tape an origami heart to my sleeve.

But the real one hides in my pocket.

No one likes my paper heart anyway…but my real beating heart in my pocket would be hated even more.

Write on my paper heart in black ink; sign your name across the edge of my veins. Maybe I can finally recognize myself if there’s a name to even recognize.

          Kiss my cheek with blood; resurrect me from this pallor I am.

          Blue veins follow my wrists.

          Death follows a blade.

          I envy those who can force upon themselves pain…because I wish I could feel the pain.

          But no. I endure a different pain. The pain of living in a world diseased with my suffering. The Infectious contagion and blight of reality becoming a virus in my body, turning my veins and eyes black.

          I am Oblivion’s trademark, its finest production.

          While I write this mess, I can’t see a beauty in it. I can see only the message I put in it and the horrible stature and form. Its body is misshapen and distorted…like my life.

          A life where friends prefer. A life where friends pretend. A life where friends mistake. A life where friends have no clue.

          A life where friends send me to my doom.

          I’m just done.

          I want to get the hell out of town. And maybe…be able to pull my real heart out, and let it beat on the corner of my sleeve.

          Paint it with rainbows. Because that’s the color it should be.