The Knife Under Your Bed  

You say
You want to cut yourself
And beneath your bed
Hid a sly little blade,
Your metal Jesus, saving grace,
Waiting to slice through the vulnerable
Folds of your flesh
Because the aching pain inside
Is too much and
Whimpers for release.  

You’ll probably end up back in your office
The very next day
Wearing long sleeves
Despite the scorching heat
So that your boss can’t see the
Two vertical lines carved
With ruthless precision up your arms
Lines tracing the pulsing blues
You’ll feel a tingle, warm rush  
Knowing that it’s there
That you did it
You engaged in a duel with death
Just enough
To rest your skirmish monsters.

Imagine
The burns of those infernal
Eternal flames licking
Your soft underbelly
And what did you solve
Inside your head?
You’ve done nothing….
Exacerbated the impassioned
Howls of your demons
Haunting the night sky
Agonizing your abandoned child's cry
That nary a heart cared enough
To caress.  I understand.  

Bleeding out is not a good death,
Sweet heart,
At first it will be warm,
The blood running into pools
In a euphoric rush
Until your lips begin to blue and
A deep, excruciating freeze
Consumes your body
Into its marrow  
With such ferocity
And violence
That you will beg
With wide, panicky eyes
For death to save you

But he won’t, he’ll wait in a
Comic huddle in the corner
Checking his watch with a lopsided grin
(He’s seen this before)
As your soul fights its last fight
And night settles, as usual, into
A cruel and empty sky.