The Razors Edge

She sits and rocks and holds her wrists,
She wonders how it came to this.
She thinks about the pain and hurt,
And how nothing ever seemed to work.
She held it in and forced a smile,
Full of pain and hatred all the while.
She watches as the blood trickles,
And she thinks of how it almost tickles.
She looks to see its not deep enough,
Maybe she should just give up.
She wipes away the blood and tears,
But she cant wipe away the pain and fear.
She holds her wrists and rocks in shame,
Good thing she doesn't share this pain.
She closes back up and ignores it once more,
Wandering down the hall to her room she closes the door.
She bandages up her bloody wrists,
Then beats the wall with tight clenched fists.
She sits on her bed and begins to write,
And it keeps her up for half the night.
The feeling of the cuts beneath the bandage,
Was it worth the razors edge?

by Ciara Owens

Comments (1)

a great poem with a deep sense of intensity of morality...... now when i look at a shaving razor, i'll think of this. Keep up the good work.