The room is empty,
The air is still,
Nothing but me,
My contempt.
It's cold,
Smooth,
Sharp,
Uncontrolled.
I turn the killer,
Over in my hands,
I turn the breaker,
The thriller.
I wrap my fingers,
Over the handle,
Open,
It lingers.
Fair skin,
No marks,
No scars,
This what would've been.
Press,
Glide,
Cut,
Regrets.
Drip drop,
Red,
Blood,
No stop.
Pain,
Mental,
Physical,
No gain.
Sharp breaths,
Gasps for air,
Bad thoughts,
Deaths.
Back to reality,
Realization,
Wounds now scars to come,
No morality.
The blade,
Not the killer,
The one who holds it
The killer betrayed.
Just one,
A single burning cut,
All this hurt,
What have I done?
A poem about cutting.
