The Razor

Shining in the moonlight,
gleaming in all its bloodstained glory.
There it lies, on the table beside the bed
in this lonely room.
The razor winks up at me
with malice growing in its steel heart.
It calls to me,
“Come child, sit awhile.”
“Come friend, open yourself up to me.”
And every night for the past two years
I’ve listened carefully, patiently,
to every last word.
Every night for the past two years
I’ve opened up old wounds,
and created new scars.
And tonight, as I gently, slowly,
run the razor through,
I watch the people in the pictures by the bed
more closely than I usually do.
They’re all faking smiles
and feigning happiness,
while foolishly grinning back at me.
What would they say, I wonder,
if they saw me here tonight?
“Such a lovely girl,
such an intelligent mind,
we thought she was better than this.
What a waste, what a shame.”
Remembering them, I make another cut.
But as I’m slowly, gently,
slicing open my skin,
another picture catches my eye.
He smiles genuinely back at me,
without a hint of disappointment in those blue eyes.
And as I remember those eyes, I remember his voice,
gently whispering three small words.
And I can’t help but wonder,
what would he think of me,
what would he think of this,
if he really was looking down on me
from a better place?
But I can’t bear the thought,
can’t bear failing him,
like I know I am.
As I guiltily clean my newly self-afflicted wounds,
I see the razor’s sickly gleam
and hear its sadistic whispers.
And in this moment,
I hate it,
I hate this,
but most of all I hate myself.
And once again I hear him whisper
three small words.
Three small words
that mean more than the words of the razor,
three small words that can save me from myself.
So I open the window and throw the razor;
throw it as far as my injured arm can manage.
And somewhere,
from deep inside my head,
I see his brilliant smile,
and hear him whisper
those three small words.