The blood oozed out of my finger. One clean careless stroke and it was it. I could now mark myself on the walls. On the doors. On the windows of my life. It dripped on the floor like drops in ocean. I let it fall. I cared not to prompt it off. It didn’t matter. How many oozes I had spent on countless heartbreaks and agonies. How many of them already floated dead in my veins. It didn’t matter.

In a while it would start itching. It would tempt me to bruise my already bruised fingers. It would also prompt me to try to cut other parts. It brings me nausea and also brings me excitement. It tells me to explore my already blood drenched organs which keep me alive. It doesn’t matter if it help me to live through this world. I dig in my nails to rip open my tissues and flesh. I sear them in raw fire to consume what is left whole. In the dark abyss I let all my blood drip to fill it. I would then quench mine or someone else’s thirst of life someday. While I summon all my thoughts to concentrate on this, the blood continues to drip. The clotting factor is missing perhaps. Some genes inherited from the Neanderthals which make me savage, lets me think gory. It goes deeper inside my soul to eat, consume and breathe my own flesh. The blood oozes until the chain of my thoughts are broken from the sharp painful tinge I now feel in my hand.

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