Charity was like a form of torture to himself.
Though its effects were charming and
Their smiles were pleasing, they only
Reminded him of what he could never have.

A slit of passionate lack of passion,
There he sees the essence of his
Mistreated heart drip onto the floor,
Where he had lain with her a month before.

But what of this passion could he say
Was her fault? Was it all in his mind,
This circuitous path towards self-destruction?
Perhaps, but little could be done now.

The essence formed a pool of sorrow that
He now ran his finger through, matching
The worn, lost pattern his mind had circled
Through a million times before.

Sickened by the idea that he could not control
Himself or the world around him, he drew
New paths into his skin, matching his mind's
Own need for the escape that its blood had taken.

He gazed with wonder at the soiled tip of
The blade, wondering what force was truly
Necessary for his mind to slip away from
This cold world and pour out its own essence.