The room is silent, the nothingness is ear-shattering.
The sound of the tv disrupts the calm,
I sit on my bed and
by some grace unknown to me, I get a knife

My left arm, doing nothing but taking up space,
my mind's getting sick and tired of everything in me,
my right hand's got the answer,
and it's a sharp blade.

The pain of the flesh being penetrated,
sharp steel drawing up blood,
I let go of the knife and
drink the crimson life fluid.

so what if I drink my own blood?
 
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