bleeding out

i used to think bleeding out meant weakness — that showing pain would make me smaller.

but sometimes, letting the wound speak is the only way to survive.

bleeding out was written during a moment i thought i would drown in silence if i didn’t scream somehow.

bleeding isn't breaking. it's proof you are still alive.

bleeding out to literal death

never got to breathe a breath

couldn’t live without my flesh

now nothing but emptiness

spread me open, drugged and numb

dug inside, tear out what’s done

vacuum screamed, metal bites

something rips, i lost my sight

heartbeat gone before it spoke

a memory that never woke.

ghosts of veins that never filled,

a pulse denied, a fate distilled.

bleeding out to literal death

never got to breathe a breath

couldn’t live without my flesh

now nothing but emptiness

cold sheets stick, the blood won’t stop

cramps cut deep, i feel myself rot

chunks of red go down the drain

swear to death, i hear my name

fingers shake on porcelain white

drained and drowning, losing light

eyes go blank, a body still—

something lost in time that has to heal

im over it.

02/25/2025

healing isn’t some clean break.

it’s ripping stitches out with your teeth because you weren’t done bleeding yet.

if you're still leaking, still screaming, still gasping — good.

it means you're still here.

🩸🖤