One crimson morning the sun rose and I bled out across the sky.

My veins pumped life into the dawn.

The razor was a mirror into the eyes of the sun and it was hot, and scalded the sink.

My wrists were surrogate wings that lifted me as they drained.

Ribbons of molten rust ran down my fingers.

Silent drops patterned the floor, a mural of red on white.

Streaming through the window the rays glinted off my ashen eyes.

I will not be forgiven.