Dear you in the darkness, dear you at the razors edge, dear you with the dying heart.
Hear me and head me, or maybe not. In calmness and stillness I draw the blood myself.
The blood that drips and drops and slithers through me and over me. Red, slippery, coppery.
Life so small, so bright so red . . . My heart beat taking me away.
I feel the death, I feel the sting, I feel the fear.
Blinding in the light, and darknes. I sit very still, waiting to die. But I don’t.
Dear darkmes, I can not feel your hand in my throat. Gasping for air as you tighten your grip.
I want the pain, I want the blood, I want the warmth of your self inside me.
Drip, drip, drip . . . Red and red and black mad sharp. How sharp? So sharp I won’t feel a thing.
But I will feel it. I am numb.
I slide the razor through my arm, a thin red line. A thin. Red line.
The pulse slowly, slowly and then. Them the warmth of death and Dear You, my darkness. My darkness with your tongue between my legs.