I feel the blood leaking from my sleeve, dripping on the beige carpet beneath me... my stomach swells as the pain cultivates, I barely have enough strength to lift the cigarette to my mouth... I breath in, I exhale... the unceremonious and repeated motion fills me with solace... yet I still find my self burdened by the effects it’ll have on me... how silly, what’s the point in worrying about that now? I shed a tear wondering about the people I’ll leave behind... will they even have anymore to say besides “how tragic”?.... the razor blade covered in crimson, “fuck life” written on the side. My button-up shirt drenched in sweat, who knew I’d be this afraid of the end? The copperish stench lingers in the air.... I ask myself why I’m still holding on, self preservation perhaps? Or maybe I still have something worth breathing for? Too late now, I can feel it. The call of sweet nothingness, enteral abyss