i am sick to my stomach
as i swallow the infertile glimpses of another's merriment
possibly plummeting into a darkness so indifferently black
a darkness-known only to the child in the mirror
and the girl staring back
with the wishes and wants that my body dribs
and with one quick collisional stroke on the child's beautifully painted canvass
one toss of the blade across her skin
one inkling of pain and i will hurt you
don't you touch the only thing i have left
don't you mess it up this time babe
she cannot have the pain
depression is the last thing the girl needs
it might just leave her empty
nevertheless not breathing

like it almost did to you