Literal Suicide

I draw lines of remorse upon my flesh.

The boundary between pleasure and pain is ignored within the nostalgia of the moment.

Nostalgic because each line is a memory already traced.

Do I weep tears of irony at the lack of life from the circle that I live?

As I robotically move from one motion to another, a dancer without passion.

And yet the presence of pain gives birth to a memory of the moment.

A memory I treasure with engraved lines of resolve.

A resolve to write my literal suicide.

-Opinionated Man

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