Wrists. Wrists, and hands, and fingers, but mostly wrists. Just a millimetre down and to the right. Cold silver against chilled skin. Music blasting so as to drown the gasp, and then laugh that accompanies the slash. Pain and loneliness, quiet and loud, screaming through action, soft red lines against brown background. Elation… Wrists. Wrists, and hands, and fingers, but mostly wrists.
I’m beginning to think that I’m talking to myself. My conversations end with my trailing into silence once I realise that no one was listening in the first place. Mirror, mirror, me, as it’s who I’ve been talking to the entire time. Regurgitate, reiterate, in and out, round and about, and right back to you. Might as well keep quiet to begin with.
Sometimes, if I shout out loud enough I catch an echo… echo. Echo unto me my forgotten cries, so that on a night such as this, I will know that although I am alone, the world is not quite so vast as I had believed.
If at first…
Wrists wide open,
as I lay my head on the cold kitchen floor.
Fan blowing hot air in my direction,
I wonder exactly how much more —
What more did I need to keep from this pain—
Pleasure as the knife cut drives me insane
Bite back a scream
As it claws at my throat
scribbled upon the note —
that I wrote as my hands shook,
keeping in pace
with the crescendos of the music
and the tears down my face.
I know from before
I wont have long to wait
before my mind rejects the situation
And I begin myself to hate.
The self righteous indignation
with which I began my task
fades past recognition,
never does it last.
And as I bind my arms,
With white tourniquet
I think “who has failed shall try again,
tomorrow is another day.”