The Haunting Imprint

Oh, I love the pain. Was that really a wise thing for me to say? Or do my feathers not really drown when he covers them with ink? My finger tips glide gently across his skin. My eyes see red, but my heart sees dandelions. I gather up the courage to tell him that I am done. But what is the use? He will just tell me whatever I wish to hear, to uphold my wishes, and quench my fears. I want a thunderstorm, because I believe that is the only way to start anew. But I am tired. Tired of chasing the dandelions into the oblivion. And tired of watching my once pure heart become tainted with his blood. It is becoming diluted, and my clarity is becoming nonexistent. Soon enough I will be left unable to change at all. He will have made his mark on me, and in return, I would have to live with his presence etched Onto my skin forever.