landscaping

When I cut I bleed but like an addict
it's never deep enough nor black enough.
I look across this desolate wasteland
and see myself among the burning
branches, the flames of my
discontent. My arms are a road
map of pain and longing, a criss-
crossed landscape of love and loss.
And I scream to those that would hear
and find myself alone on an abandoned 
highway amid my own wreckage. The
ghosts look familiar as I meet them on
my way. Their scary faces bring me
comfort. So, I walk holding hands with 

the demon who brought me here.