The dull knife sitting at the bottom of the ***** sink,
Whispering light promises into my ear,
Come dear; hold me close.
I promise I'll go away.
The bitter razor sitting by the grimy bath tub,
Hissing orders from across the room,
Come dear; grip me tight.
I promise I'll go away.
The edges of my mind,
Growling in its gruff voice,
Come dear; listen close.
I promise they know best.
But I don't grasp the sharp objects,
With my shaky fingers.
Instead, I claw at my arms and legs,
At my neck and wrists,
Wanting to just reach forward,
And quiet the angry voice telling me,
Come dear; don't be ignorant.
*Fingernails don't do enough damage.