Poetry.....Beginning To End

The First Cut

Silver blade in my hand

Pressed against my skin

So cold

Yet I hold it closer

To leave a mark

Warm red trickles down

From the mark

Impressed on the flesh

By the blade

And now a little lower

Pressed the knife again

Deeper

The red runs faster now

And move down

And little lower

Press to leave a mark

Third stroke

And not yet feeling faint

Fourth, fifth

And blood loss

Weakens resolution

Staggers from pain

Falls to the floor

Will not rise again.