You push the blade deeper in, letting the warm crimson leak from your skin. You satisfy the voices by doing so, not much deeper left to go. You drag it, as the tears fall, killing the person everyone else used to know. It's the only way you know how to cope, you say. But you know deep down, it can't stay this way. The pain gets worse as you go deeper in, but you're still not satisfied, there isn't a trace of happiness in your eyes. You killed her, are you happy? You now make her wear an armour of stripes, or as some would say barcode lines. You now fight to stay alive, after you killed who you were on the inside. No control in your head, so you decided to make a mess. That sweet, happy person now lies in their grave, and you can't even recognise your mistake. You let the crimson flow, covering your own grave. The room goes black, conscious no more, just a body left on the floor. You wake up, in a hospital bed, bandages round your head. Your parents cry, your partner can't work out why, why you tried to kill the person inside. Your no longer yourself, but now a memory, in a picture on the shelf. All because you let the crimson leak, you killed the person you were beneath. You covered your own grave with the river of blood, you were warned and warned where this would go, but now the person you were is truly on their own.