The End?

My old and favorite knife.
Rusting from the blood.
It flows and goes and seems to never end.

I love this knife, as it loves me.
Or the stories that it sends.

From working as a tool of trade,
From tip to braided end.

This time is no different.
The blade, it still runs red.
But this time, its from exactly what it "said".

The words on my body,
Carved deeply in my skin,
Show what and how its feeling,
Just when I begin.

The thought of pain surrounds me,
The chatter of relief.
The silence that fills me,
As I finally go to sleep...