Smoke

I would tell you a story, but my drugs are not to be found. So let me tell you reality in form of a dream that is always around. 
Dark room, I'm face to face with a mirror. I stand in one spot, a dead person in the other. I go to pick up my blade, however, not for my wrist again. I lather my face and rinse the edge, as I start grinding my facial hedge. 
My hand flinches, I feel a trickle of blood glide down my mask. This does not stop me, I continue my task. Soon my face is oozing gore, I look in the sink as it continues to pour. A reflection of myself, who I thought I'd never be. A blink, the scene is clean, no more red. All except my hands, which can not be rid.
The camera pans, now I stand in the living room, soon to be my dying doom. I've always wanted to watch my death, I would if I could. Record it with this knife and send it to myself, on replay for every second I spend in the afterlife. 
I see a black revolver on the empty table space, I pick it up and put it to my face, and blow my brains all in the fireplace. The stains of my blood will forever be there, so everytime a fire ignites, the smoke will carry my thoughts and soul through the air.
This is just a story, but it is my inevitable history. I need 3 doses of 4 pills to sleep. So I'm gonna pick up this vodka, and keep knocking them back. Until the day my heart stops, and I see nothing but black.