My Favorite Color
The burn of the knife on my flesh is such a release.
I laugh as the blood pours from my veins.
Landing in small red puddles on the snow,
As the trees watch me go insane.
This is not what I want, but who cares about me?
This pain is for all the others, though this is not what I need.
I can’t help them, I can’t save them,
There’s nothing left for me to do but bleed.
My wrists are on fire as the knife beats them like a whip,
Striking the same place over and over, again and again.
I scream and I’m afraid that the world has heard me,
But then I realize the scream was only in my head.
If I had a bullet, the pain would come greater.
If I had fire, the burn would be stronger.
If I had a rope, this would end more quickly.
If I had more time, this pain would last longer.
If I weren’t such a procrastinator I’d already be dead.
Though, there would be no one to mourn.
Remove the body and the stains from the carpet.
Pretend the girl was never born…