The urge is building,
there are knives in my pocket,
razors behind my desk.

It will ache in the morning,
as my perfume slaps my wrists.

Long-sleeve season now,
nobody will know;
I'll never know.

But he'll turn me over
and see the pain fresh,
on my skin and blistering.

It could pull me away from here.

It could drown me.