Lot of Poems

I spot the knife on the table,
I slowly float over to it,
Picking it up, feeling the cool blade,
Knowing it will pierce my skin soon.

My hand quivering,
My fingers lingering,
Gripping the handle,
Ready for the pain.

Taking one last glance,
Looking for witnesses,
No one is around,
I look back down.

I place it on my skin,
Cold to the touch,
I press hard as I grit my teeth,
I feel the warmth of the blood run down my arm.

I cry out in pain,
And tears fill my eyes,
And that was the way I felt,
The day I died inside.

This post was submitted by Carli Finley.

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