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simonePoems
It calls out to me Sitting in my other hand Urging me to use it An upturned wrist Lays on my leg Veins traceable All to be sliced The vision of blood Seeping down my arm Throws chills through my body I want to use it To trace delicate lines All over my clean skin The cold metal heavy in my hand A comfortable weight Its sharp edge gleams in the light Begging to be used To be coated in my sticky red blood Feeling a razor sinking through my skin The immense pressure then release Pure pleasure in my mind Despite the pleasure that I yearn for Slowly I roll my sleeve Over my wrists white flesh My clenched hand relaxes The sharp razor slides out Falling to the ground I turn my back And slowly walk away Holding my breath and not looking back
0
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 2:53 PM UTC
The Call
It calls out to me Sitting in my other hand Urging me to use it An upturned wrist Lays on my leg Veins traceable All to be sliced The vision of blood Seeping down my arm Throws chills through my body I want to use it To trace delicate lines All over my clean skin The cold metal heavy in my hand A comfortable weight Its sharp edge gleams in the light Begging to be used To be coated in my sticky red blood Feeling a razor sinking through my skin The immense pressure then release Pure pleasure in my mind Despite the pleasure that I yearn for Slowly I roll my sleeve Over my wrists white flesh My clenched hand relaxes The sharp razor slides out Falling to the ground I turn my back And slowly walk away Holding my breath and not looking back
Written by
simone
American
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 2:53 PM UTC
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