Every time you cut yourself a little piece of myself weeps for you and your corrupted soul. Die now or you will make me suffer with you. There is no word that grasps the thought of how sorry I am for you, how much I pity you, and how much I grieve for your dying body. For my body is but a corpse and your sorrow devoured my soul. I am but a meal for the dead and not departed for they have come to the scent of your crimson blood which you slit from your talented wrists. Time is consumed within the darkness which is how you depict it to be. The world may give pity on you as it moves on. Follow it, for your sorrow is that which can only be repaired by you, but you cannot drag me down with you. I, dead body, no soul, shall let this fathomless guilt die with my tears and die with your healing scars.
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