The black substance slowly oozing around my arms,
Like creeping vines of rationalized sickness.
I breathe in, the sticky substance tapping on my lips,
Begging to choke me.
The cold mirror in my hand sends chills up to my cheeks,
Dulling the rose-colored ashes that once stained them,
Burned there from years of silent sobs and deafening whispers.
I feel my blood stop pumping, turning to iron.
My veins become wire, and my body doesn't belong to me anymore.
My heart is a tin can,