Self Consuming Fire

I have in my hands a knife.
It's a short steel blade, curved with a series of spike ridges near the base.
It’s cool to the touch, a slumbering hunger with in.

I place the knife against the base of my self.
I gently work the point in toward my center.
The skin gives way with a weeping, burning line of thin red blood.
Holding my end with one hand I work the blade around in a circular motion, severing the root my essence, discarding it like a cancerous growth.

Dripping I wipe my hands across my soul.
Staining pink against the pale gray.

Then I move my fingers into a spread pattern.
Placing the blade on the smallest first I slice,
first through touch,
next through self-delusion,
third through self-loathing,
fourth through self-image
and fifth through lust.

I bite my tongue between my teeth, extending the muscle as far as I can.
Sawing then hacking I remove the device thorough which I cause pain amongst others.

My ears are next.
Nothing left but small black and bloodied holes on the sides of my head.
Let the voices speak their treacherous lies to me now.
I hear only the slowing murmur of warm life.

The tip of the knife pressures my eye,
denting the surface before piercing and rupturing my sight.
Envy and desire leek down over my face,
freeing the pressures in my skull.

There I sit.
Dripping.
Waiting.
Repenting.

A broken form huddled in the shadow of a giant obsidian pyramid.
From its pinnacle a pillar of writhing life erupts.

I can only hope my companions will stay the same.

The wounds will heal.
The appendages re-grow.
The scars layered upon previous scars,
The lessons of the self-fueling fire.