Ro-Ro's Original Quote, song lyric, and Poetry book.

ELEVEN

He held the sandalwood handle in the crosshairs of the lines across his skin, hand dragging the straight razor from its sheathed state. His red rimmed eyes stared wide and unhinged at the raccoon eyed boy staring blankly from the mirror. As soon as the blade caressed the little hairs near his lips, a relieved breath slithered past his teeth in a silent hiss. The moment the blade turned towards the edges of his thin pinked lips, he grinned and felt proud he had a smile again. Bloodied, soaked in sweat, and blade still in hand; he was happy with the smile on his face. The open wound bled like a head injury, loud droplets of burgundy and wine staining the front of his rabbit-white jumper and kissed the floor. The puddles ran red and dripped down his chin in a cascade of scarlet ribbon he used to stitch up his scars. His heart beat a hollow song like the reaper's sorrow filling his mind and deaths door becoming his own. His hands shook as he raised the instrument of smiles to the mirror, life soaked hand smudging watered lipstick stains against the glass while the raccoon masked eyes followed his every move. His tongue licked a stripe down his wide palm and past the razor's edge in a dance with devils, the bump riddled meat barely meeting the edge as it collected the coppery treat glazing his hand and slipping the substance past his pretty pinked lips and into the darkness awaiting its meal inside. A happy little hum buzzed it's way home as the razor was folded and replaced inside his shoes next to the bone of his ankle. He watched the mirage of red create art with every drag and caress of his wandering fingertips, white fabric of the jumper quickly becoming amassed with the ribbons from his smile.