• Blood stained trees, cold frosty air, and a sore on my bottom lip. It's December 22nd and I am alone. Alone in the park. It's about 1:02 in the morning and I am standing next to a black lamp. Irritated by the flickering lamplight I move to the other side of the trail. Why am I here? I think to myself. The most recent memories of anything was having a yelling match with my mother in our foyer earlier that night.

    I sit on a cold stone bench idling next to me. The breeze hitting my face, and freezing the tears running down my cheeks. Who would have thought of me being at this point? Dying.. Slowly.. No going back now. The blood on the trees is so strong. I can smell the iron. No one around, no one to hear me cry for help. Why would I want it anyway? I am the one who did this, I am the one who wanted this..

    Dead.