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.