River of Blood

trigger warning: implied suicide

He could smell the sweat on his palms and the planes of his stomach, 

all the way down to the dip in his back where his spine rest.

 Inhaling the scent of sour skin oils, he pressed further,

 deeper, harder, as his eyes burned with stinging tears.

Clenching his jaw, trying to keep the sounds bubbled up in his chest at bay,

 he finally let his eyes settle on the river that was pooling inside the cut flesh.

It was warm and dark and teeming over, 

flowing and trailing down his arm as if it were alive. 

A beautiful river, giving him so. Much. Power.

Over everything. Over anything. Over life itself.