Poems

Razor

She takes the razor out of its hiding place.

Light glinting off it's sharp edge .

One, two, six cuts later she feels ok.

Each cut longer and deeper than the last.

She remembers the sweet bliss of the blade as its burried in skin and pulled on slowly.

She counts the scars on her leg.

Sixteen in all slowly fading.

She tilts her left arm from side to side.

Faded scars showing in the light on her skin.

Ones only her eyes can see.

All telling he same story.

You. Are. Not. Loved.

For the hundredth time she thinks it would be better to end it all.

Then she thinks of friends and family

"no I can't do that to them" she whispers aloud.

And takes away the blade she unknowingly placed on her wrist and tucks it back into hiding.

Ready for the next time it is needed.