I lay on the floor, suppressed by the surrounding darkness, alone. No insects present, not even dusts, just me and my thoughts. I've found my conscience, or at least what's left of it, and had a conversation with my conscience, what I'm doing is wrong for everybody, but it's right for myself, so is it right or wrong? We'll never know. The horrible yet beautiful cast of fear cast upon me, I can take it, but why should I? Why have I made this complicated for myself? On the verge of suicide, but the smell of my skin lingered too close to my nose for me to die, I've way too much care. I smiled, I've not cried, I sense no fear, but inside I'm screaming, yet I don't want anyone to hear my cry for help, why is this contradiction possible? When knives take over my lungs, I love it, I deserve this pain, I've craved for my f**king punishment, forget my sins, I enjoy this. It's not enough though, I need scars, I need excruciating pain, I need splattered blood. There was never no God, there was never no guardian angel, I had to look over myself. The prayers were wasteful, like the empty soul in me, just worthless and a piece of shit. My head is dizzy, my hands are trembling, it's working, I'm even more scared now than before and most importantly, I'm scared of myself. The capability of being alive is so thin, but a part of me is still in me, the part that's not going to cave in and it's a strong force, I must say. This pain is like an artwork in the work, it's just painting on me, careful with every detail and making the image realistic. I'm officially against the fire, or because my eyes on are fire, I am with it? It's like what they say, keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer, well, fire, come here and give me a hug, for I, am dilapidated.