Gradually

Painted nails
Painted in red
Digging deeper
Into her flesh
Drawing blood
Oh, so red

Knives and nails
Pens and pencils
Drawing blood to inanimate objects

We are not living
We are not dead
We are the purgatory of people
We are nothing, but individuals

In a bucket full to the brim
Of small drops of water
We may make ripples
Some people do

I am dead, on the inside
                         and out.