Through the murky corridor,
brushing aside the webs,
he totters along; injured.
The pain, blood oozing out.
The scars, darkened, neglected,
screaming for attention;
skin, peeling off.
The journey begins again.
A knife, broken, blunt at the edge,
held tightly in his hand.
Intent, a score to settle.
Pressing it deeper, an inch a time.
Slower the penetration,
a prospect to experience;
thicker the stream of blood,
faster, it is over.
-
He does not feel alive till he kills himself...slowly...each day...
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dark
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