Drops of Blood

Crimson rivulets, felled from a need for pain. They forget to scream, and instead a sigh reigns. The blade that strokes. Each murderous thought it provokes. An attempt to escape paled and failed. The stains embalmed. The blade now palmed, for the wrist it may dash. If it may, more blood doth it dash An idea that pain is relief, how rash. This hurt so much, could they not ever remember to move on? Yet to this they fall pawn. Somehow to it they feel drawn. Their thighs and wrists well clawn. Now they are gone. Out of the silence, a single sound is born. The echoing drip of the dropping drops of stained blood.