Suicide By Knife

The knife slices cleanly upon my exposed wrist. Not enough pressure to cut... Yet. The knife thirsts for blood. it cries out to me, "Do it, do it now. You are nothing. You are no-one. DO IT." Should I? I slide the blade of death down my arm, making a thin clean cut. Blood does not weep from this wound, but only sits and clots. Finally, I grasp the knife tightly and carve two words into my arm. 'Have Phun' And then the knife is plunged deep into my stomach. Blood pours from the wound like Niagra Falls in the wake of a monsoon. Slowly, that knife, that everlonging, bloodthirsty knife, creeps over to my wrist. Everything is turning red. The knife appears to bend, almost as if it is smiling at me. Without my consent the knife quickly slashes at my left wrist. A scream, muffled only by the gurgling noise of blood dribbling down my chin echoes through the room. But there is no-one to hear it. I look down and all I see is red. My left hand lies limp, and yet, there is enough strength left in it to take hold of the knife and place it on top of my right wrist. I slowly, as all things of this manner are done, slit the bulging vain. The scraping noise of skin splitting to expose flesh is almost unbearable. And then... it is over.A very old poem of mine. Also, there should be a suicide category. Written March 12th, 2002 © on Mar 11 2002 08:40 PM PST   0 • 1