As I hold and twirl the black handled knife,
I consider if my next action ends my life.
The point so sharp, the edge so serrated,
Then my thoughts speak and I get berated.
The hilt feels so comfortable in my hand,
Thinking, am I ready to make a life’s stand?
I rotate the knife from my left to my right,
Have I the guts to self-inflict with all my might.
I get mesmerised by the glean of the blade,
Why do I think deathly colours of shade?
I relax my hand, pointing the knife at my chest,
Where would ‘the point of entry’ be at its best?
Holding the knife on my skin warm and tender,
I move positions again, albeit so very...