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.