Hello audience this is the Magician. I would like to know if you have any idea what is going on or what it means. Also this rhymes I didn't know how to format it so it would but try and read it out loud to hear the rhyme. The formatting sucks. But I really love this story and I hope you do to.

I pulled the razor out of the drawer.

Stained in crimson sweet caress of the unreachable.

I had to it helped.

So solemn so sweet the razor's edge tickling my pale wrist. Heard about it all the time, all the same.

I wasn't different, Just another number on statistics. Screw it.

It's when your wrist is pulled open.

You can feel how jagged the slightest cut is.

Like a zipper on your skin.

Then your stomach kind of flips.

And your insides feels the strange tickle of the wind.

Then it's behind you.

The sorrowful man in the mask.

The man you know looks at you with his own sick possession and passion.

In the darkness, with my tears and blood.

Sick as a obscene love.

I haven't seen him yet.

But I know it, know he is there.

If I turn around fast enough he may be there.


What? Not there. Maybe if I cut again I will see him.

I hastily made the fourth incision down my arm like jagged tally marks.

This time I got him before he ran.

Right behind me.

"Please cut again. Cut yourself again. Your pathos your soul."

"What are you?"

"I am Atomos the uncuttable and I need you to. For me to."

He walked up to me and rubbed my cheek and I noticed the razor blades leaving the tips of his gloved fingers.

A drop of blood down my lips, a plip sound.

A puddle of crimson in the darkness.

He was tall maybe six feet and he wore no shirt.

And his skin it was pale like mine.

With jagged scars of fail decline.

And then he wore a mask with the narrow visage of death's face and with deep sad eyes that shined like lights in a tunnel.

"How can one who can not be cut have scars such as yours? Down your chest and tattooing y our arms."

"A fiend am I. A cutter fiend, and in my self-hate and horror. With these jagged cuts little girls do die.

And in your sins are loathe to tell.

My pleasure comes from others fell.

When you bleed out your skin so blue and swollen lips a purplish hue.

I may in your death cut myself and I do it fine.

For I need to kill from my self hate then when I kill I hate myself twice much more."

Then in this it dawned upon me. And I said.

"And how in this do you get those to go so far.

A slish a slash the final scar."

And it was with sobbing he said.

"I show myself, from stains so red, a little whisper in your head.

Then I delay you too long. And you bleed out and you are gone."

Then I realized his ploy my unchecked cuts, the puddle of red. So light how odd it feels when you are dead.

And in the spinning sky, I can see the man tears from his eyes and one more cut split his skin from his razored fingers so fine.

The blades like keys of death. Taking precious youth before it's time.