It used to run red

When skin was thin I dug right in and mined for all I pleased. Each night I’d write until first light and wake each day with ease.

I sliced and diced, not once, not twice, and scattered my heart to the weeds. It’s true some grew, hell, some even bloomed, but I failed to take heed of the breeds.

Now callous and dry, my skin holds no lines, only roughness and a will to secede. I long to delve deeper, and now know why the seeker will cut just to see how they’ll bleed.