The cry of pain,
slithers into my mind,
as I wait for you.
The waiting,
shall one day kill me,
can’t you see that.
Driving me now,
back to the past,
the cries growing ever stronger.
The glinting metal,
catches my eye,
calling me to pick it up once again.
Hand runs over,
that scars that none see,
the relief they brought.
The pain… the after fact,
the blood running down my skin,
the line of life and death danced upon.
I pick up the blade,
my fingers rest on the edge,
images flash back in my head.
I run the cold blade,
across my skin,
back and forth.
You… them… will never,
see the scars… the new lines,
I’ll hide them well.
The sharp blade cuts the skin,
the crimson river runs again,
why is the thought of you still there?
Another slice across my skin,
still there… another,
fading… another.
The thought of you gone,
lost of a few moments,
as the silent cry of pain bleeds from me.
It’s never too late,
for you to step up,
it’s never to late.
I lie.
It will be too late,
‘cause waiting for you
shall soon kill me.
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