This feels like an arrow wound.
With every push, a trembling ache grips you,
And every pull tears open sealed wounds.
A fever, while watching your crimson hue.
Look to me, beyond your horizon.
An island surrounded by waves of water,
And yet, dying of thirst.
Alone in the enchanted crowd.
Smiling at the mirrors, angry at what I see,
Staring into my own eyes, hoping it speaks to me.
Alive, only to think of death.
Dreaming only of things Macbeth.
I think of you all,
But only as distant memories.
I want to dangle from my ceiling, facing the wall.
Stopping the voices in my head, while the knot creaks melodies.