Another Bloody Poem

Can you smell,
The blood on her hands?
Flowing from veins,
Which she calls her play land.

The silver razor,
Emerges from its case.
Its between her fingers,
Ready to run its race.

Just one small cut,
Across the street.
That’s all she needs,
To feel complete.

It feels so good,
The razor slices more.
She studies her wrist,
As the blood starts to pour.

Digging each cut,
She no longer feels pain,
Until she slices,
The largest vein.

Blood is flowing out,
Like water from a spigot.
Who knew she would scratch,
Such a big ticket?

Paying with blood,
For all her mistakes,
From then and now,
That she chose to make.

Her hands are shaking,
From mutilating her wrist.
She cuts one more,
And ceases to exist.

©2007-2008 Stefanie Czyzyk