The Razor

Sitting in the corner of this thing called life

she slowly lets her tears sink through the

dirty and rusted tiles like a knife.

The tiles that once felt comforting against

her innocent and youthful skin, now eat

away at her flesh like the acid she once

used to make the pain subside.

After this, she knows there will be nothing left to hide.


A grotesque dagger has flown right into the

middle of her already shattered heart.

There lies on the bathroom sink, only a few

inches from her, a welcoming salvation.

“There could be nothing worse,” she whispers,

“than this damnation.”


An hour has passed, yet the tears continue

to seep through her snow-white skin.

The reflection before her is disgusting and

it motivates more tears to cascade.

This is her last resort, for she has already

wasted her time and prayed.


She finally picks up the gleaming razor that

will end her internal suffering.

Slowly, she presses it against the blue vein

that is filled with anger, rage, and hate.

Inside, an ounce of hope wonders if it is too late.


A moment flies by and she hesitates.

The razor seems possessed as it glides

along, releasing all her anguish.

Those bottled-up emotions are now all

over the bathroom floor, waiting for the

people who never cared to come clean it

and feel the pain she felt for so long.

She begins to question whether this was wrong.


Her dimming eyes glance toward the pain

that has left her mind and invaded her body.

Through her heart there rings regret.

Through her mind the words “no.not.yet”

play over like the voice that was never heard.

She drops to her knees and closes her eyes.

Her soul is saying, “everyone dies.”