Tourniquet

Every storm that has erroded at me, the weight of every blizzard on my back, it has led to this. This is it. Here is where I crumple, I collaspe, where I break. A sharp collection of imperfections, of smothered loathing; it has transformed. Something so dark so pure. All daggers from the outside, all daggers from the inside stab at the centre of me. I'll spell it out for you because you're obviously blind and you've always turned from my words 'cause they trip over your mind. I hate myself. And I would unwind completely feel the liberation of coming undone. I would cease, stop, finish. I would give up. But there is an illumination and I cling to it desperately. His Love, my bleeding secret yet my only tourniquet.