Suicide Birthday

What is this blood?

Why is it all over me?

It is because I am bleeding...

Though I do not feel the wounds,

Only the cold and numb that is this life.

Rotting soul encased in this useless skin,

That does nothing but antagonize me.

You all stare at me and yet, see nothing of me,

Just this strained and God-forsaken body.

You only see my ugliness,

But my amity with them would only gnaw at them...

Wouldn't it?

So this is all of the pain...

But why don't I feel it?

I feel like screaming...

At anyone, about anything,

Just to lose this terror.

I must not be real...

Because of the blood splattered everywhere,

Drenching my pale, grey skin in sticky warmth,

Beginning to cake onto my lips and fingernails.

No one will save me,

So where is my fallen star?

Will it not comfort me?

I feel I shall die alone,

Only feeling cold numbness...

Am I already dead?

A strangled breath catches in my throat,

I feel as if I am choking...

But I don't need air.

All I feel are the cold,

And icy tears making their decent,

Some passing onto my lips and into my mouth,

They taste bitter and almost sweet,

Thicker than they should be...

Now the blood seems more real,

Yet still no pain,

The blood has flowed with tears onto my tongue.

I walk over to the mirror.

There is a thick wine,

The color of claret,

A thick veil of blood.

My eyes meet the ones in the mirror...

They are empty...

And red.

No longer blue,

Diluted with blood,

Though they do not sting.

Finally I see the knife in my hand...

But when I look to it,

There is no knife,

It is only in the mirror.

I peer in for a better look,

And something catches my eye,

A hand...

Slashed, torn, mutilated...

I do not want to look closer...

Oh, but you do, I think,

So I do,

And I scream.

It is mine...

And next to my carcass is another...

And all of them appear,

Strewn across the floor,

Looks of sheer terror carved across ivory and red faces.

This place is drowned in blood.

I once again look at my hand,

I finally see the knife,

Did I truly do this?

This slaughter?

My ugly suicide?

Yes... Yes you did, I answer myself in horror and shame.

But I did tell them to go away,

Not to become a friend,

They didn't listen did they?

No.

And this time I can't bury them in the forest,

Because my mortal form will rot with them,

And once this wandering ends,

If it does,

I will fester and burn in hell.

My soul did rot away long ago,

And was in constant pain...

And it still is now,

More than before,

Much more.

I have committed massacre...

And no one shall ever know but the victims and myself,

Because with me I have the knife.

It doesn't help my corroded conscience.

So this is my birthday of slaughter,

My last birthday...

All because of suicide.