I'm in a big house, having big dreams
and next time I wake up
there's blood on the bed.
Didn't know it was time yet.
Or is it not mine?
I feel old in this hotel
as if surprised to find I still don't have it in me and yet so young. Hollow.
Unsure if I'm young or old.
I dip my finger in it,
smells like a long winter
and I feel the need to touch everything, everything in this room like a dog.
I'm marking everything that belongs to no-one, bringing it close to me, or life, or something.
I have big dreams and blood powers
my own artistry. My combined failures.