The very fabric of this mind.
Ripping apart at the seams.
Each delicate thread unraveling and dropping to the floor.
The, oh so, soft lace drifting about the wind as you spill.
Falling in lengths of feet.
You fall to your knees and stare,
the lace and thread on the floor melting into scarlet liquid.
Your hand reaches out, wary, touching the warm liquid in awe.
Fingers gliding up to your lips, letting your tongue brush over them.
You say in utter disbelief.
The other hand wisps up to your head, pushing past your hair to feel at the scalp.
A hole?.. Its warm.
A..A bullet hole..?
But that must mean.
You look down and stare your body right in it's lifeless face.