“Black.
He is one with.
Black.
He knows none but.
Black.
He sits at the table.
Black. His only friend.
To the right, a straw and a razor.
Black. Darkness.
To the left, a strange white powder. He sniffs through the straw. In his brain he gets high. In his body he dies for the eighth time.
Black glares knowingly.
He looks up from his sorrow on the table.
In his hand, the rusty razor blade.
Black backs out and looks upon his friend sadly.
He wants to paint a picture, but he decides to use the razor for a brush, his skin a tan canvas; he paints a red fountain of sorrow.
At the door, a woman walks in. Mother.
Black runs from the scene, looking back on his friend.
Life is over. More over than it was before.
Death is knocking at the window.
He cries and mascara runs through the powder that brought death.
Black leaves him to suffer the consequence of self abuse alone.�
“That’s depressing,â€? I commented. Myra looked at me with hatred. “Hold on, I have to go to the bathroom.â€? Myra said quickly.