i called out last night, in desparation...
save me from myself.
i waited all night, patiently...
trying deeply not to delve.
crying eyes
awash with tears
too much pain to cope.
yet they tell me wait and i wait some more...
feeling like a dope.
how can they take me seriously
how can they know the truth
that no matter how
no matter when
i seek to die
and welcome the end
three days ago
i found a knife
lying there alone
it called to me and sought me out
said, "make your wrist my home"
so beautiful it looked
shiny and clean and sharp
i thought that maybe
if i cut enough
i could dull the pain in my heart
two question marks
like butterfly wings
carved into my wrist
a star.
of hope?
below my hand
left there for me to see
the pain is gone
for now, it seems
i feel myself again
but i know next time
he'll call once more
begging for blood
to warm his skin
shiny clean and sharp,
but cold.
