The smiling mask stares out, blankly, as the cold steel and glinting knife finds its mark, plunging deeply inside my back-cleaving me, separating me, my intention, my vision.
Not satisfied at once; twice and more, thrust and turned and twisted. My blood-drops litter the floor as I contemplate the myriad patterns they make there.
Oddly beautiful in their contempt they cry out, "Treachery Is Afoot!".
In darkness, despair, and dismay, I, then, beseech sweet providence, Release this misery into thy loving arms and bring me once again inside your pulsing, nuturing womb.
I'll have no more of this