You bleed, and yet you live. Strange, isn’t it?

Every drop drags you inward. Every ache whispers a question: are you searching for the version of yourself that existed before the wound? You know it well: it died long ago, just before the knife tore across your skin, before the first fissure split your bones from the inside.

You want to run, but you were never meant to remain whole. Do you remember the garden where we once got lost? It was full of life. Now it is ruin. The butterflies you loved lie scattered in the dirt, wings shredded, colors drained, bodies cold. Their powder coats the soil, sparkling under the storm’s lightning, a mocking shimmer of what was alive. The sun no longer bends toward them, but the wind lifts them once more, spinning them in a final, fleeting glimpse of flight.

Your wounds do not beg to be seen…they demand to be given. They do not ask for eyes, they crave hosts. They are not memories; they are predators, and every time you touch them, they bite deeper.

All the nights you woke with blood on your body. You cleaned it in the morning, like nothing had happened. Slowly, inexorably, you bled yourself out, washing the last pieces of you into the sink, into the dark, into silence.

You will die more times than you can count. Quietly. Slowly. Not all at once. In rooms where nothing stirs, in years no one names, in moments so small even time forgets them.

Every sentence you swallowed grew teeth and tore at your intestines. The dark knows where you hide. It waits. It waits to remind you that survival is a curse, that living with wounds is the cruelest kind of immortality.

Fly, if you can, with your wings split in halves.

Let the sky tear you further apart.

The world will remember the taste of your blood. It will lick it. It will feed on it. And still, somehow, you crawl forward. Broken, torn, hollowed, but alive. Bleeding, yet drinking the blood of your own wounds to feed the same hunger that wounded you.