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All I saw was blood and rain and I never saw it coming again. Cut right into me- left me to bleed. Scars, so powerful; forming over my skin- mental scars, invisible to the human eye. Now, I'm here- on my knees in the pouring November rain begging for mercy, pleading. Alone. Thumping the ground in distress and rage. Now blood is protruding, seeping from the scars we formed. He's the author of this Shakespeare tragedy proposing this pain on me, the protagonist. I need her to give me life again. This troubled heart has now been cut; three times too many. I knew from the start- but refused to believe it. I should have known better. Now, I have to watch her grimace as she sees me die- what have I done to deserve this except from listening to your catharsis. You're a sick, demonic, malevolent man from the underworld- taknig the form of death. I plan to end it all tonight; no longer will you kill me- as I plan to kill you psychologically. Kill you with my diction. Dreaming is a satanic sin, writing is making that dream a reality. You're no sin of mine. I love this pain you impose on me- pushing me further into the darkness. Now only she can save me from myself.