Suicide without the knife (2)

The alcohol sithe 

Burns in my mouth,

A fresh cask Irn Bru

And Bacardi.


Tongues whisper down my throat

-biting the dusty inside of my mouth-

Twisted, sick malice.


And what  a grave situation

This shallow sickle

Six layers under skin

So close to reaping grim



Smoothing over my piggled callus

Rubbed over skin again and again, 

Sliced through, diced through,

Fears keeping knives in my mind.

The End

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