Everything I touch stains red—
no matter how gently I hold it.
I am a man without skin.
The wind slices,
water scalds,
every step drags me through blades of iron grass.
Pain is all I know,
and I’ve learned to crave it.
I have always been soft,
surviving only by believing
no hurt could outlast me.
But this time is different.
I am a man without a heart.
The pain is dull now—
my body too weary to scream.
Pleasure is shallow,
a child’s first firework
fizzling into darkness.
I knew how to live without skin—
but how do I breathe
without a heart?
Even my own blood
looks duller these days.
The Stones Bleed Like Me 