Bleeding bleeding bleeding bleeding.

I think perhaps that the more I write the word the less my mind will do it, but it doesn't stop. I curl in redhot flames and wait for the blood to boil away and it boils and boils but keeps bleeding, seeping out and - hot. It's hot. Inside my head it keeps on heating up and beautiful, that's beautiful, but why does it hurt?

I'm sorry. If you're reading this I can't be making much sense and I'm sorry. I try to make sense - I do, I'm sorry. It's hard to see past blood in my eyes - it's not really there.

Hot in my mind and cold everywhere else.

I wish my ink today were red, but I couldn't find any and when I went to empty a vein, it was empty. I have no veins like this, of course. Fire running under skin which is really just more fire. But it only makes sense when the ink is red, you see. Because you look at black ink where she says she is bleeding and you think: Oh, look, she's lost her mind, we were right, she's lost her mind.

I have not! I have lost my words!

The spot where they were kept bleeds, the wound doesn't close so please ignore the black ink, pretend the writing is something else altogether, something a little redder, something - something just a little redder. Pretend for me that the words are the way they should have been.

Bleeding.