Battered and broken, he rose to the street (in lieu of a dream that was stuck on repeat,) and tattered his bed sheets to tie effigies to the holes in his anatomy.

(I can hear your fashioned screams.)
Eight horrors brought calamity to good nights. With cross references of shallow scenes in bad light. Oh and I’ll be just fine when these badly drawn characters exit stage right.

Lost in the shadows he held to the sky, he opened the sun to the thorn in his eye in hopes that he’d swallow his pride and go blind, and forget the stories he’d die just to write.

I was thrown to the wolves, while you drenched the scene in blood, in hopes you’d paint something pretty with my remains. (Please look pretty dying? Why should I? You did this to me.)

Therefore…
I penned two letters ripe with the blood of a heart we carved and then stitched up with electric lights, to pacify this incessant ghost of you and I. (And to no avail.)

Look! My heart! In ribbons! Stitched up with visions of her in bad light. Ah, these morbid scenes in black and white.

Ok, now you die.