the blood that drips, the dark that sweeps,

the knife that cuts the child that weeps.

A white rose, tainted and crushed beneath blackened footprints that mar the virgin snow.

Spatters of glittering crimson stains that paint the ivory petals in airbrush strokes and tiny teardrops.

The bright sheen of the metal blade, hidden by the bejewelled sheath that so often hides the sharpened edge that cuts and bleeds, shimmers with shining malice and reflects the light that blinds the eye.

Unsheathe your weapon.

The flourished movement; smooth as liquid, cool as ice, that arcs in the stagnant air and sweeps the length of an alabaster forearm.

Red; pooling on the carpets, polished as a lacquered finish, cold as rage and hot as fury.

Red; that allays the knife and red that ripples downwards in an uninterrupted grace, without friction or the jerky movements of human error.

Red that washes, red that stains, red that rips your heart away.

Red that is poetry in the form of colour that sweeps and dances and arcs through the air.

Red that is blood, and red that is human, and red that is ruby that is cutting and cold.

Pain comes, like a fog that hovers on the horizon. It comes to blur the brush strokes, to stipple obscurity in the artist's careless hands. It comes to fill the visions of red that is blood, to blind in its all-encompassing spirit, to let the living feel life and the dead to feel death.

Consciousness hovers between, indecisive and fickle, it is hesitant and unsure, nervous and uncertain. Like you, is it not?

And then that gasping moment, that fraction of a fraction of a second, where you want more than anything to live and to breathe, as simple as that. That fraction where adrenaline pumps through your system, spilling on the floor.

But the circuit has been cut, and you are too late.

Much too late.

Too late to live and to breathe and to regret and to make pretty sweeping movements with sharp knives and to play with white roses that became red soon after…

Too late to cut and kill yourself again.

Too late to say I'm s—

A/N: This piece was purely experimental. I don't like the ending, though. It is supposed to be abrupt, like the sudden cut off of thoughts when the person in question dies. I might come back to this and redo it, but after my exams, which are sometime in October, I think. Leave a review.