Carvings of Sorrow

The blade. The pain. The blood. My wrist. Slowly and carefully carving my sorrow and inner-most anger; leaving reminders of my pain on my soft flesh; watching dark crimson beads blossom on my arms and flow down my finger tips numbness of my senses sets in and my limbs become light as air blurring vision and vertigo standing upright, it is no longer possible. I fall to the floor as the blood drops begin to pool beside me the cold floor becomes warm as my body heat disperses I know I've gone to deep yet, the sick sadistic side of me finds the strength to smirk and I die there with the essence of insanity forever frozen across my face.