Not for the squeamish...

Lights up on a woman sitting center stage, on a toilet. The lid is closed. She sits forward, on the edge. Knees together, ankles splayed, elbows resting on knees and forehead in her hands. She’s barefoot. Wearing blue jeans and an oversized white man’s shirt.

The music starts. Leona Lewis' "Bleeding Love". She raises her head and looks at us. There is blood trickling down her face from the inner corners of both eyes.

She gets up. Begins to move. Sort of pacing. Rhythmic. Her shoulders swivel. Her chest begins to move, undulate, heave even. She turns to face the audience. Holds the collar of her shirt open to look inside. Looks back at us, in shock. Then rips the front of her shirt open. Blood is dripping down her torso from long razor-like cuts, symmetrical lines of three on each breast.

She tries to use the shirt to mop up some of the blood, pressing and patting. The resulting cover-up-and-reveal is almost coy. Disgusted, she balls the shirt up, throws it on the floor. Resumes her pacing, which is faster now. If you couldn’t see the fear in her eyes you might mistake it for a strut.

Her hips begin to move. Undulate. Then almost to jerk. She unzips her fly, slowly, afraid of what she’ll see. Reaches one hand in between her legs. Closes her eyes. Slowly pushes the denim down her legs, not wanting to know, even though she does know.
She steps out of her jeans. Faces the audience in just a bra and a pair of thong underwear. And blood is running down the insides of both her thighs. Too much blood for a period.

She falls to her knees. Turns her back to us as she fumbles through the pockets of her jeans, looking for the things she put there. Things she thought she might have to use, but hoped she wouldn’t. She reaches around, we see her fear-numbed fingers slowly unhook her bra, slowly ease the straps down off her shoulders…

Then she makes up her mind. No more stalling. With a bloody, victorious grin she whips her bra off and turns to face the audience. She uses the bra to tie off, then quickly shoots up something from a syringe she had in her pocket. Then she takes the razor blade she also had in her pocket, and makes two long, deep cuts in her wrists. In the direction that means business.

Blood pools around her as she sinks forward onto the ground. The music ends.

This is how I’d do burlesque.