A watchful eye.

Submission meant for 'A Song Of Myself' competition.
 
 
Number six:
The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom.


 
The serrated edge teases tender, pink flesh.
"Go on darling," I murmur. "Do, go on."
Your eyes wild, lashes a flutter;
a blinking sensation in the sweltering heat.
 
The drone of our fan soothes you.
Faint though it may be.
The swirling motion of the blades.
Circular and, inevitably, predictable.
 
Its static white noise -
a comforting blanket against
aching fears;
the mounting tension.
 
In this precious interlude
of time on Earth -  
the air stiffens;
the flicker of courage falters.
 
You were never more vulnerable
during our precious moments.
The deed is sinful, I admit,
but our need is far too heavy.
 
I await my climax
as you press harder
in growing anticipation of yours.
 
As always,
pleasure envelops us  
in the form of tiny droplets.
Lovely crimson tears that
stain our floorboards.  
 
To me, the scars emulate beauty;
all traces lead back to you.
 
"Now, now." I coax, softly;
lacing our fingertips together.
The frantic beating of your chest,
strong and pulsating with life.
 
We lock eyes.
You are a vision of mortality.
Crisscross pathways leading
right to Heaven's door.
 
I hear you knocking.
The rap of your knuckles;
stained in dried, dirty blood.
Are you tired of waiting?
 
Not too deep, my dear.
Only just enough.
Stay with me here.
For I do not long to be alone.
 
A forlorn glance.
Your eyes full of pity.
Do you need to go deeper?
I nod, begrudgingly.
 
"There, there my dearest.."
I whisper, purring sweetly;
my tongue flaps as fast as a cat
licks cream from the bowl.
 
"Keep on cutting."
 
 
Knock, knock.