NIGHT CRISMOND

I've always had this violence in me, against me. You know it's easier to throw your demons on your skin, down to the bones, until you tear your skin. It all started one night. It wasn't late. But everything was black. I cried for hours without even being able to scream in front of the firmament. So I took a blade, tarnished at the bottom of a closet. I always had blades at my disposal, in front of my desk or lost at the bottom of a bag. I'm in art what do you want. But that night my skin replaced the paper.

And I was in so much pain. But I was less pale. The crimson was hot. My life was still a little present. And the void is gone. Just one night. Only one illusory evening. One evening in the colours of the Malignant. It happened so fast. I hit my arms, alone, sitting in my sheets, a few drops of blood on my way.