i lay back on the worn down mattress,
i really should replace it, but what's the point?
everything becomes worn down, so would a new mattress.

so quickly the comfort leaves my body,
not that it's bothersome, i'm used to the pain.

the razor on the windowsill glints in the sunlight,
i turn, to look at her, the woman in that corner over there.
she's always dancing, trying to brighten up a gloomy demeanor.

she's still twirling, still paying close attention to my movements,
she pauses in her step, watching me reach the razor with my fingertips

don't give me that look, i glare, if you don't like it-
she picks up a blindfold, out of mid-air.

i stare as she wraps it around her eyes, as she twirls again,
fine by me, you can dance with a blindfold,
and i with my razor, can open many a thing.

even with the blindfold, she falls ill
becoming dizzy, missing steps.
it must be the smell, attacking her senses.

eventually she collapses,
flickering in and out of life,
i stare, feeling the crimson liquid

flow down my hand, leaving drops on the floor.
i stare, and watch, as hope dies.
she melds into the floor, and i haven't seen her since.