Something about the blades burrowing through my sickly skin feels bland these days. That dark rusty dazzle of ruby fails to satisfy me, and I find myself digging deeper and deeper.

Something about my death gives me a certain thrill, a pang of fear seeping through my veins and settling in my heart when I fantasize what death will be like.

Of course, I'm utterly terrified of death, but something about imagining my frail body floating from a ceiling fan is relieving. Something about dangling my feet from the terrace, imagining shattered bones and scarlet splashed onto cement pulls me in. Something about water gushing through my torn windpipe as I gasp pathetically like a fish flopping about on land feels amusing.

Something about my death makes me "feel". Makes me realise the fragility of a dainty life, and the delight I'll get when I splinter it to slivers of rot and decay.

Something about living feels like such a chore these days. The screams of help I stifle suffocate me, and the spiralling chaos of it all scares me. Yet I breathe, the coward I am, cursing myself to cyclical suffering over and over.

When will it all end?
Hopefully soon.
© Hyde