The Last Work of Art

The misery of watching as those around you traverse their lives; is but an empathetic needle piercing the heart. Only in death do we, the wallflowers, win. Only then do they finally make the people around them realize the depression that can eat you whole. Only in that moment do they see what a person they were.  Then can they see you for who you truly are. The opened heart only swells with pity, after the blood is split. Yet when you are alive they ridicule you. They act like they know what is going on as if they were bigamist assholes. When they eat at your entire being do they relish at what they have done and care merely for themselves. It slowly destroys us as it drains our sprite and confidence. It eats away at who we are, but do they care; no. They don’t they care about how you feel or who they hurt in the process as long as they are fine. They never have and never will. They just want to drag you through a mud puddle. Beat out your dreams and everything you hold dear.

So as I stand here, this gleaming, silver beauty in hand driving it across the pale skin as ruby tears spill forth; I finally realize no one cares. The blood flows pouring out about me. I slowly fade struggling to write as my sorrow filled tears stream down my face.  The blade slips from my grasp as my arm drops heavy letting the bloodstream down. As a crimson pool appears on the carpet I give myself to the open heavenly arms of the angel.