My Knife

I type I'm ok,

I swear on my life;

but as I say it,

I grab my blood soaked knife

and drive it into my wrist again;

tell me, when will this end?

the blood spurts out

making a mess of everything;

as the blood drips,

my knife slips,

I crash to the floor;

there's a knock at the door,

but no one's answering;

there I lie-dead