Hope

Burning fingertips. When your burning fingertips touch my skin, I feel the rage of hormones, within.

Ancient emotions, which was once buried under the deep black earth, reawaken. A new life, unearthed.

The smell of acid, acid dripping from your lips.

I look around. Torn pages wander across the room. Some pretty blank pages.

There’s no blood.

The weather is too cold. It’s the touch of the ice cubes.

A blindfolded you, a blindfolded me.

Blinded by gruesome faith and tormenting belief, we walk along.

It’s acid, instead of blood. I need some more.