ick

A razor blade forged from invention, cold, and smooth.  I force myself across your skin and leave a valley of freshly cut skin.  A river of warm thin blood soon fills the newly formed valley and coats my smooth shiny edge.  I stop for nothing and continue my journey downward getting deeper with every inch.  Vein, muscle, and fat now stand in the way of me completing my mission but offer little resistance.  Bone is the only brake this vehicle has.  Scratching and scraping away at bone I continue the line I started narrow and true.  This will soon be my last chore and when it's complete I will be discarded.  This is my purpose and the reason I was created.  In a few moments nothing will matter.  I feel the end drawing near and the momentum is finally extinguished and I lie still.  As I look forward I realize all the things I might have accomplished.  I could have done so much more with my existance.  I could still be useful if only fate would have started me elsewhere.  I could have started the cut somewhere with little resistance in my path.  I could have followed in another's path to lessen the hard times.  The edge once so sharp is now imperfect from the battle with bone.  Half of my edge is stuck in bone.  The other half is still sharp and willing to work but cannot continue on without the other half.  The blood once so warm and thin is starting to gain density while losing warmth.  My once shiny surface is now covered in red and a bead slowly forms at my tip forming a drop which gravity pulls to the floor.