Paper crumpled
and thrown aside
does not stop the anger
from boiling up
inside of me
or the pain
from ripping at my conscience.

Knives sunk
deep into the apple
only enrage me more
and give me a
metaphoric pain
tingling up my spine.

You talking
in your sweet, intoxicating voice
instantly erases the anger
from all memory
but the pain
won't subside.

You're the paper I want to crumple
and toss aside
light on fire and burn.
And sinking a knife into your skin
is always on my mind
a burning desire.

Or perhaps I should burn my crumbling self-image
and sink the blade into my own flesh,
and bleed the life out of my disgusting body.