I have unmade veins, they are a mix of green and blue, traveling through whatever little is left of me. They are no maps to where my intention lies, they are his doing, he made them to find my own ways, ingesting hollowing smoke into them, puncturing my flesh, oh! there is none left. They spread among the redishness of my burnt skin, he often leaves his traces down where he travels. You won't find me, I am lost within my own veins.