No Escape

A drop of the golden
Liquid drips down at
My arm, and it burns
The very existence of
My delicate skin, but
I cannot stop this
Treacherous walk down
To my very happiness,
I just can’t. I need the
Drop to unfold, while
Ensconcing me within
The honey-like viscous
Molecules which it is made
Of; I let my hand guide its
Way to the knife which will
Be my friend tonight, and
Quickly pace its blunt side
across the wrist of my right
Hand, and I cannot help but feel
The heat burning my skin
In this cold, where my teeth
Chatter, calling out curses
For choosing my own
Destruction. I press the
Standard uprooter (the
Father of satan) on my
Wrist, press it with all the
Little vigour I have, and
Close my eyes as the
Cells of my skin are all
Stuck to it, and I’m certain
That it will ease the discomfort
Of feeling disgraceful of my
Own skin, and I am scared;
I’m afraid of letting it leave
The touch of my skin and I know
My next step would hurt
And raze the lining that
Protects my skin from the
Damage of nature, but I
Need it to leave; at least for
Now, because I know it will
Come back to haunt me
Again, and I have to pretend
It’s all part of a game. And,
So I proceed, and let the
Uprooter do its job, and bite
My lips to bear the pain, to
Never let it escape with the
Gasp that leaves my inner
Skin, followed by the expected
Sigh of relief which precedes
The realisation of doing the same
Thing over and over again.
Wasting no time, I plunge
My friend for this thrill, the
Knife, into the can of wax
And spread it on the wrist
Of my left hand, this time.