Crimson

As the night drags

so does my optimism

My pessimism takes hold -

or is that my realism?

Is there really any difference?

In the moonlight

there is doubt, there is uncertainty

there are knives, there is blood

Could I perhaps

paint the bone-white moon

with the crimson pouring from my veins?

Could I perhaps

pillage the bones from my legs,

sharpen them as the pain of loss dullens

then with the other end,

create a paintbrush -

so I may cry out for help

one final time

Before turning my own femur

onto myself,

inpahling my chest with this sharpened, partial skeleton

They always told me

I had a calcium deficiency

perhaps now,

as I lay with only my final thoughts

and the crickets which, too, have grown silent

my heart will have enough calcium

to one day become as strong as bone.