Razors In The Darkness

I have heard the voices
the soft, numbing anger
that tears at my skin
from the inside.

If I slash my wrists
will this rage seep out
and leave my final breath
free of its poison?

But I am weak and
full of empty bravado,
and won’t have the courage
to make the needed cut

Oh, no, I’ll cut my skin
to attract fleeting attention
but all the same, you know
I’ll stay well clear of the vein.

How strange is this
that I would rather die
than face another day
of waking nightmares

another collection of
long, torturous moments
feeling hands on my hips,
and their daggers inside of me

and their heavy strength
pushing my head into the pillow
hissing “shut the fuck up,
you know you liked it.”

The razor’s edge is beautiful
in the flickering candlelight,
but still I cannot bear
to silence whispering voices.

Though I an not convinced
I wish to hope that
perhaps by still breathing
I am exacting revenge.

If alive I bear witness
to the inhumanity of men
and will wear my many scars
as proof of transgression,

though I may lie in the darkness
and swallow muted tears
with razors on the nightstand
and release a stroke away.

February 7, 2007
Kings Mountain, NC

Written as Claire Mulkieran

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