**Disclaimer: I am not suicidal. This is poetry, not my life story, but a metaphor to signify the inner turmoil that difficult decisions cause. No interventions, please!
The dotted lines on my wrist say
"Please cut here,"
and as fear wells up,
so does blood and tears.
The pain swells and swallows me whole,
and in my soul
I know that I am home once again.
The pain is a cold lover,
a faithful friend
Glittering rubies slide down my skin,
paper thin like sequins,
decorations for my harlequin charade,
followed by a wave of cynicism
before I lose myself.
Long sleeves hide this razor's teeth marks,
then I see you and the spark is there,
and all that's keeping us apart
is this bleeding heart
and these bandaged wrists.
The list goes on and on,
but is it so wrong for me to want everything
and nothing at all?
I want you.
I want to be left alone.
And I want you to figure it all out
so I don't have to.
And when you do,
I'm through with you,
I can't ever be with you
because you know too much.
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