A Eulogy to Pretty Blades

Being
hurt.
or not.
being.

Each velvet red petal,
his fingers ran across—
cut him.
made him—
bleed
the exquisite experience each
pretty
blade
bore.

Intentional to hurt,
or maybe not—
sharp actions and
blunt
words were dealt
and intentionally,
or maybe not—
he hurt.

All reds were love
like golden honey
bees.
Their existence was—
beautiful
but their stings were creative
-ly—radical.

His pain was not
necessarily joy—
but necessary
to have his treasure.

Pricks were like
sunrays
piercing through the
blue
sky and under his right
eyelid into his
soul which showed through his
iris.

The pain is correlated
with the
beauty.

His hazel eyes could
see the culprit through the
fingerprints
on the pretty
blades.
Still,
he
bled.

Mimicking—or maybe—
mocking,
a rose thorn.
Remove and
die.
Do not

Remove.




*this is layed out a little differently on actual paper, but i can't figure out how to add spaces in blogger...