‘Death is a beautiful thing. Death is a horrible thing.’ I thought as I lay there, the steak knife still gripped in my right hand. I was wet from the blood that escaped my veins, engulfing me like a mothers caress. Why was it hot? How could it be hot emanating from a cold heart? It was a revelation, a strange revelation. “Ice is your heart,” they said. “Stone is your heart.” They said. How wrong they were. The gashes I made from finger to forearm were now a dull throb, the burning had subsided. Peace was coming to take me. A peace like I’ve never felt before. A true rest. I laughed. Blood spurted out of the wide wound. Warm blood. How beautiful it was, the crimson of it sparkling with an otherworldly light.  How precious. How wasteful, like the life I’ve lived. I was weak now, so weak. It was time, time to leave. I wanted to look at myself right about now. Was I beautiful now? Would all the people that told me so think it at this moment? Would I still be precious to those that told me so after I was blue and drained? Would I still be gorgeous after the essence of my being was striped from me and I was a bloated mess? Would you love me after I was gone? Would you remember me? Would you think back to the moments we’ve had after you’re married and gray? Or would I just be a fleeting soul amidst the wave of countless faces? “Did I love you?” you might wonder. I’d say you were the only one I loved. I wished the force of the love I felt for you would be powerful enough to keep me here. I was wrong. I love you, but I could not live for you. But I will still love you as I am dragged to my grave. I will love you as sand is forced over my coffin. And I will love you as my soul is hauled to the pit by merciless hands to pay for my sin. Who else could love you to the end?