l loathe myself with hate, while it bleeds out of love in that very same weight.
Some-
thing of antinomy.

'l love you,' stabs into myself. Until those same words tore up my throat...
lt's almost as if, my heart, is like a blade.
Unafraid of my sad, soaked wounds.
'Cut me,' screamed the skin.
And my hand stabbed at it with that dull dagger.
lt was art, though in lack of imagination...
it was real.
And for the very first time l even thought that,
that just maybe,
you can finally feel me...