the razor in my butt pocket calls to me,
singing tales of relief,
of loving, absolving caresses on my skin,
of sweet, sweet pain,
numbing my soul to the bullets flying past me
on this mental battlefield,
promising me a sheild, a blanket,
a place to rest my head and heal my dying body.
every hour of every day is a struggle;
a fight i'm no longer sure i want to win.
a fight where i'm not sure if winning would be
living or dying.
honestly, does it matter?
is there even a difference between
i'd say one's as bad as the other except
because i would rather be alive than dead any day,
and if that means dying instead of living,
then so be it.
those moments when i'm living and alive
at the same time
are far and few between,
and they're not quite worht the pain.
except, in those moments, everything
is almost worth it.
almost, but not quite.
today, the only thing keeping me living is that
tomorrow, it will be something else.
past that, i'm not sure
what will keep me alive.
for the time being,
it is my razor helping me