Razors Edge

The little pink lines all up my arms are an image of who I am. What I do. The razor slowly goes deeper, deeper, deeper, a long line of red erupts from my wrist. Making me feel strong. Why? Distorted images of you flash across my eyes, they're all I see. They consume me. Every time I close my eyes, there is your cold, dead, body. Sprawled across the cold hard earth. And yet, your still here. That, is why. I am eternally frightened. I'd rather feel the pain that comes with the cuts than the pain of seeing you like that.
Just a little farther now. A few more cuts and I'll be at razors edge. Just a little more and fall off into the red darkness over the edge. Just a single push and I'll fall over razors edge.