The demon within
rattled his cage.
Shook and demanded
release.
Tore at the bars
straining to contain him.

My eyes held captive the tears.
My throat barred the door
on my scream.

The moon held my silence.
Accomplice.
Laid a shroud over the pain.

My wrists burned for the blade,
begged for its abuse.

I shuffled to the drawer.
The one that held salvation?

My feet protesting,
my mind beckoning.

I opened and stared. Worshiped the
Silver sheen,
Night dark handle.
Elegant curve
oh so sweet.

And I envisioned the feel of the knife
cutting through the flesh,
the slice,
the searing white light
that would spread through me
like a rumbling wave.
The slow dull burn
that would follow
on the heels of its master.
The blood that would gush
and spurt
and fall to the floor.

Could I stop it?
Keep from dying
on those callous yellow tiles?

Who would find me?
In time?

Could I still ask

"What
have
I
done?"

When looking up at wide eyes -
my own unable to see?

Could I claim
the pain I had caused
with pride?

I still shunned the hooded figure
always a step behind me.
I brushed away that cold hand on my shoulder.

I closed the drawer.