Red beads
too fine to be strung
on anything but a knife cut.

A rift in skin and morals
and certainty -
didn't she once cry,
no need for the knife?

It is now a wire
drawing her tight,
releasing her.

A/N: I do not intend to say, by that poem, that I advocate cutting or suicide or mean to encourage those who are on those paths. It is just a description. Actually, what I now suspect as an attempt to glamourise (?) the concept horrifies me most. Hm.