Sometimes I shoot myself in the head just to see the blood splatter.
It’s beautiful, really.
The way it beads on the white painted walls,
leaving a winding trail to the ground;
You could call me sick, if you wanted.
But after pulling the trigger 15 times,
you really don’t feel it anymore.
The brain matter just adds to the wall’s texture,
as my skull lays in scattered fragments near my feet.
My head looks more like a bloomed flower,
my pollen is everywhere.
But that’s how you wanted it, right?