Crimson rivers of blood run from the wounds on his delicate, pale, silk-like skin. They run much like the tears that fall from his warm chocolate eyes. Those beautiful eyes, that grace me with their stare, give such a wonderfully pained expression. But, his soft, rose petal lips are upturned into a smile so bright that it warms my ice cold heart. He smiles knowing that he is pleasing me with his rather entertaining display of self-mutilation. For his efforts, I reward him with a teasingly slow approach towards his sweating, shaking body.
I do not fear the knife in his quivering hand; his love for me would not allow him to harm me in anyway. I am well aware of this, but he still thinks it is necessary to prove his undying devotion by cutting another long slit on the quickly disappearing unmarred skin of his upper arms. He sobs quietly to himself as his eyes capture the image of his newly formed wound; he lost the ability to scream long ago. His eyes tear away from his torn skin and look into mine, and he looks at me not with disgust or hatred or even confusion, but devotion and love.
His lips smile tiredly at me. Looking at his arms I can see that he is going to slip into an eternal sleep soon. Soon, he will not be so weary. Soon, he will receive the ultimate reward of rest.
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