Too late

The feel of the sharp,

Cold object on my wrist,

As it gently moves in deeper and deeper.

Leaving that awful but yet pleasant,

Rusty, smell of the bane of my existence.

Dripping-

Drop,

Drop,

Drop.

Spluttering and splashing.

Forming a monstrous puddle

It grows stronger as I weaken.

I smile as I watch my time running out.

I cut deeper and watch the blood,

Dripping faster and faster.

The sight consumes me as I drop into the puddle.

And my vision fades as I hear a scream,

No!