Warning: may arouse feelings of depression or self-harm
The bloody blade is pulled again from the drawer,
His feelings are locked as tight as the door,
His pain is his drug as blood stains the floor,
His last resort when he can't take life anymore.
No one will know of those tormented eyes,
The release of punishing the one you despise.
When his truth is a poison and the antidote lies,
He hides the tears of blood that he cries.
He dances with death,
He sleeps burning in hell,
He dreams of his funeral,
His final farewell.
The trickle of rubies as the blades are released,
Gives the pain on which his dark soul does feast,
As he awaits in despair for the cool kiss of death,
The glorious moment when his life is deceased.
I wrote this awhile ago, referring to myself but using the pronoun he because if it was found then it wouldn't prove that I cut myself. So, I hope you liked it, and any feedback is welcome.
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