The blade, a serrated edge.
It tore through my flesh.
Just a simple cut.
Not this.
Blood spilling on the floor.
No way to hide it.
What to do?
Should I slit my wrists?
No, not an option.
Can’t leave loved ones behind.
I clean the mess.
Bandage the wound.
I need help and I accept it.
Scared of what I did.
But it was good because,
it was the last time I cut.
Poetry