A sliver of skin rips from myself
I take the knife from the upper shelf
Skimming the blade through each skinny hair
The blood within mixes with the purified air
Drip drop down my white pale arm
From the look of it I enjoy much harm
Able to see clearly tons of hard bone
My heart is broken like pebbles from a stone
Tears fall down my colorless face
Unable to see the light between all this black space
Chopping away the person I am
Looking like a beet red Hannaford ham
Piles of memories splatter on the floor
Agony and loss block my bedroom door
All the pain I once contained
Is hopefully finally being drained
I lay upon my comfortable bed
And picture the horror that I just bled
It's cold within these shattered walls
My happiness feels so very small
I heavily walk to the bathroom sink
The mirror is melting just like ink
I stare at the person on the other side
She's just bone with little to no pride
...
..
.
This is a poem about suicide. I do not feel this way but sadly many do. It's supposed to show that when your done, it didn't improve anything.