At Knifepoint (Version One)Mature

she sits there in the dark room,
black light her black heart
see the invisible lines of her fate,
twisting knife points on puckered skin,
dare yourself to come in.
twiddling knives like
tweedle-dee twiddles thumbs,
the time has come
for you to see her talents,
bear witness to her art-
she is the best at breaking hearts.
she learned from the best-
experience her teacher-
she can rip it from your chest,
and you'd be none the wiser.
she needs one to pump blood,
as hers is made of ink and stone,
she needs yours to make her feel at home
among the walking,the living-
she just feels so dead.
her ink spills upon the ground,
staining it, branding it,
seeping through into the dirt,
it burns like acid,
the plants screaming in pain,
the trees wither on contact,
she feels so alone-
the razor knife in her hands,
is her very best friend,
the only one who understands-
dare yourself to see her,
to see me as I am.
please, take my hands
and save me,
pull me from my crouch,
remind me that i'm human,
so I can make it through alive.

The End

100 comments about this poem Feed