I am cutting cherries into halves, the first of the season
I'm baking, we're going over to a friend's later
Sunlight fills up the kitchen, I hum softly to myself and
All is as it should be
The cherries are red, I notice
Their juice marrs my fingertips
My fingers slash across my wrists
Red lines over my wrists
I wish I-
I want to-
I could
The knife in my hand drips with the cherries' blood
But my heart aches for it to know mine instead
I hold knife to my skin
Smiling
I close my eyes and all I see are
Red lines
Red lines on wrists
Like the mark of a demon's claws
I draw the lines gently, rhythmically
Giving each serraded edge just a taste of my skin
Making my ears ring
I wish I could-
I want to-
I can't
I drop the knife to the cutting board
Clutching the side of the counter with my hands
My legs tell me that they're giving up
My brain tells me it's tired
My heart, beating in triplicate
That it is keeping the the red stream of my life on course
Inside
I push a smile on my face
I am in control
There's sunlight in the kitchen, I'm baking
And my knife never strays from the cutting board
All appears as it should, and when people walk in seconds later
They'd never even guess
They could never even tell
That all I can think of is
Red lines on my wrists and
My heart giving up on itself.
By far the closest I've ever been. I didn't though.