The wind touches my skin but I feel nothing. I stab myself with needles but it doesn’t hurt. Sight is the only sense I have left, won’t be long until in stripped from that as well. I wouldn’t mind. My life is emptiness nothing. Death sounds like a luxury to a person like me. Guilt is a strong word.

****

I now stand in the rain, inflicting the pain I think I deserve, standing on the grave, stomping on it as I take in the sight. Dozens of flower bouquets scatter the perimeter. Most of them probably sent out of pity. I picked up one of flowers and ripped it up, watching the petals shower the ground along with my cursed soul. The devil can have it. My soul is already dead. It was never alive.