What?
What is this?
What is this feeling?
It tingles,
it feels warm;
so comfortable.
I could snuggle in it forever.

Now it used to feel warm.
Now it used to be comfortable.
It feels cold.
Colder than absolute zero.
It hurts.
Hurts more than a thousand gashes I put on my arm
What mysterious pain;
yet forlorn.

Three knives in the kitchen.
The sharpest used,
sharp red stains.

Three blister pack of pills.
All of them empty,
distorted package.

Three strands of rope.
The middle one tied,
blood-tainted noose.

Three bleeding wounds,
three empty painkiller packs,
three-feet-long rope.

Three to the one,
three minutes have begun,
the young girl stays there.

Time.
Akin to a clear stream,
silently flows;
never to look back.

Love.
Like a sword,
cuts clean;
dolefully.

Anger.
Like an earthquake,
massively destructive;
agonizingly.

Sorrow.
Like a chasm,
never to be fathomed;
endlessly.

Jealousy.
Like a fire,
burning inside;
continuously.

Regret.
Like a knife,
stabbing oneself;
repeatedly.