Monster

The monster inside me is starting to erupt.
Telling me to cut.
Throwing me back down in that rut.
I blink, and don't hear a sound.
But I know she's still around.
Over the year I've grown cold.
My heart has started to rot.
Smelling of mold,
Love you? I cannot.
Mentally, I'm a hundred years old.
The blood is so intense,
It leaves my floor a mess.
To feel the small release of pain
is far better than taking your last name.
You don't know what I hold within,
that's why I can't let you in.
I know this might be sin,
but I need just one more gin.
As I take my last sip,
I remember your kiss.
Push the blade to my skin,
blood begins to drip.
With blood on the floor,
I can think no more.
Is it just me, or is the gin not the reason for my grin?