Sometimes you have to pull the knife out;
It’ll sting, sliding between your skin.
You’ll wince, feeling the open puncture in your lung.
There will be temptation to scream,
Though you’ll be breathless.
You may want to bite out your tongue,
But you’ve got words for later.
You may want to run from it all,
But you’re too busy bleeding.
So all you can do is slide it out—
Feel the air, with its burning kiss.
Inevitably you’ll be holding the blade
Between shaking fingers,
And you’ll be met with decisions
Whilst you stare at it—
Dripping with your own blood.
Will you cut out a tourniquet?
Open letters you never thought to read?
Remove the splinters from your fingers,
Or dare I say it,
Inflict someone else with the same pain?
My second collection of poems Dead in the Attic is in the works. Dark, gloomy poems for a rainy afternoon, available from the usual suspects when it comes out. I’ll be giving out ARC editions to my patrons before the book goes live, so stay tuned to check it out there. Thank you for reading, and let me know what you thought of this one in the comments. What’s a time you’ve felt a knife driven so deeply into your back?