The blood on my hand is now graffiti on the floor; the tattoos are red, skin stained with gore. There’s butterfly on my lips, sore eyes staring at the wrists. Limping across the hall, I cover the wounds with tape; the music sounds morbid as I watch out the window, clinging onto the wall. There…


A soul truly lost loses itself in belief, in hope Of finding itself again. What’s lost isn’t recovered, what is found isn’t what is lost. What do you choose? What do you know? Where will this path lead you to? Where do you go?