2 dimensional salvation found in a razorblade; my silver deliverance. With deeper cuts and more reason I walk in diverse fields far from the city of the weak. Gaping lips on my wrist speak of the resolution to all my problems. Faded scars, like braille, spell out my misery and suffering. Linear marks etched in my flesh until decay and rot strike my fading canvas like an eraser. It's waiting to be found like a long lost tale of hurt enscribed on the walls in the house of man; it hangs in secrecy beneath my clothes. Imperfect incisions reflecting your thoughts and opinions of my former self line my surface in a repulsing array of pale tiger patterns. Evolution through laceration. Skin slit like a cheap fabric, releasing a river of life on the banks of my forearms; washing sin and shame through fleshy deltas. The depression equation in emotional mathematics: a division of veins by a sharp edge occurs; ecstacy felt as the crimson quotient is discovered. Aroused by the unending virginity in the act, the sting ever present as the mutilated satisfaction takes place, just like the first time. My shirt hides more than my body, but also the full extent of my descent and a capacity of evil within me like a well. And how I thirst. When the blood dries and the wounds heal you're left with white eyes and pale elipses on your body to stare at the world you hate so much. Never would have I imagiend me doing this now common-practice ritual.