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.