To watch blood spill so gently, upon the new-fallen snow...

"I love blood, I love my own blood." And you slice, slice, slice, into the soft, tender flesh of your arm. So vulnerable, so beautiful. The cuts sparkle like snow, gushing crimson snow. Watch it drip, watch it dirty the white food of the angels.

To feel the sting of the knife inside you...

"I love blood, I love my own blood." The melody in your diseased little head. Slowly, you weave the weapon in and out of your arm, making pretty brown and red designs in what was once your skin. It's not your skin anymore. Now it's your playground.

To be the kind of person entraptured by darkness...

"I love blood, I love my own blood." Lay in the peircing cold around you and masochism whispers in your ear. Whispers dirty little thoughts in your ear, dirty little thoughts about what you can do when you're all alone. You smile and smile and smile. Frostbite is good, death is better.

To have Pain's hot breath on your shoulders...

"I love blood, I love my own blood." And you bleed all over the once-good whiteness. You're swimming in a sea of red now, a sea of sin and all that your ancestors despised. You are not your ancestors. You are yourself and only yourself, and you have your knife. You love your knife. Your knife loves you, and shows its love by digging into the veins of your wrist.

To breathe amongst the demons of hell...

"I love blood, I love my own blood." You grab your knife. You let the snow bury you. You let yourself bury you. You float from conciousness. And you let the flames and dark blood bury you.

To be a child again, for such primal lusts are what children are made of...