Two long, clean blades stare at me from my desk.
Their cool, crisp metal beckoning.
Curious fingertips meet steel.
Cold.
Shaking hands lift them from the desk.
My breath comes in quick, warm beats.
They fit so perfectly.
The blades open irresistibly, like the jaws of a starving animal.
I want them to hurt me.
Why do I want them to hurt me?
YOU ARE READING
Anywhere.
PoetryI've written a lot of poetry, and I guess people should here it. Some are about me and my experiences but are mostly just poems.
