Wearing a veil of disappointment,
He sat in darkness.
Tears, gushing out his eyes
Did no good.
I heard voices.
Voices, that told me he was a disgrace.
They would happily swap him with someone else.
But they never cared for his crushed heart.
I realised I was getting picked up.
His thumb gliding at my edge,
And I penetrated the skin, kissing the blood beneath.
I heard a gasp of breath.
But the blood lust had just begun.
I traced the line in palms,
Tearing here and there.
I paused at the life line.
The irony, it was too long.
Three strokes it all took,
To cut those lines short,
But I was not alone to blame,
People who said you can't, happily slept.
But the poor boy bitterly wept.
I carried on tracing his body.
Slitting the face he was laughed upon,
I was drenched in blood.
I was sickened at the site,
Where mental pain bore all physical one with ease.
I wished I was blunt,
Helping him to live.
But living a life like this made me think,
And I was pleased, that I was not born a human being.
I, was then, made to trace the gut.
The fat he was shamed for, all bled
For the sins they never committed.
His grip loosened, and I realised it was time for the final adieu.
My edge rested on his wrist.
I felt the pulse beneath it,
Slow and it was ready to stop.
A bit of force and I kissed the vein.
A slice that slowly bled.
And that night, I became
The Surgeon Of Death.