My wrist shakes
As my blade nears.
Should I?
Yes.

The jagged edge of the glass
Pulls my skin open,
Opening a hole for all the
Ghosts
To enter.

Ghosts that smile,
Ghosts that laugh,
Ghosts that cry,
Ghosts that are frightened.
Ghosts that sting
As the glass draws my blood
To the surface.

And I look at the red
And cry.
I cry
For all the times
I wanted to do this
And didn't.
I cry
For all the times
I promised myself
I wouldn't.
And now,
I have.
Who can I trust,
When I can't even keep
Promises
To myself?

And what,
What
Will I do
When I can no longer
Keep
The biggest
Promise
I've ever made to
Myself?