The clouds begin to gather
As I take up my blade.
My bare arm gleams -
White as the porcelain sink.
My cries are the thunder -
Angry, and full of pain.
The lightning is my bathroom light
Glancing off my sharpened blade.

As my blood runs down my arm,
the skies let loose my pain-filled tears.
Lightning flashes, thunder claps.
The rain turns into a downpour;
The river on my arm never ceasing to flow.

The rain subsides to a gentle drizzle.
Lightning flashes just once more,
But the thunder doesn't reply.
The storm is over,
And I lay on my bathroom floor,
Cold, and no longer in pain.