Sitting alone like every other night,
reaching through all you're pockets,
nip the finger on a razor.
pull it out.
see the thick liquid drip,
fresh and scarlet.
look through the blood pooling in you're hand,
knuckles white as paper,
from weight heavier than the moon.
see out of the alley,
there passes a child lost
looking for something.
never sees the glint from a blade.
looking up; laughing and crying,
another one has been freed from loss.