I stare at the ground while it falls on the floor. My wrists are now swollen, bloody, and soar. It sloshes down quickly, like a cascading river. Though, the cut on my wrist is no thicker than a sliver. I know what I've done and, yes, I am mad. Yet I keep walking, unusually glad. A small trail it leaves, watching me closely. They ask if it hurts. I reply, "mostly". The shadows I see are now growing fast. As though they had come here from deep in the past. They reach up to grab me, I quickly step back. My wrist have stopped bleeding, so away now I hack. I have all to lose and nothing to gain. Now you know why they call me insane. Insane is the feeling that dread and hate brings. You follow its answers and life is a fling. I plunge myself down as the water does rise. The bathtub is perfect and its a nice size. I then grab the dryer my dead mother did use. I've blown out a gasket and now trying a fuse. The last thing I know is my laugh is insane. As I drop my death down, with my blood in the drain.
