As I think about my bedroom, the knife has more and more appeal to me. I can hear it sometimes. Calling me.
I keep the blade in an envelope under my mattress, along with a letter. Sometimes, I take them out and lay them in front of me. Wondering.
I picked up the small sharp piece of metal and it is almost insubstantial, it is so weightless. It feels fragile, lying across my fingers, like it would shatter if I dropped it. I related completely with the blade. The look of a weapon, but really being delicate beyond all reason.
I have already been shattered one too many times. I cannot continue to kill myself inside and out. I can do it right now. With a flick of the wrist.
Suddenly, I am horrified with myself, and I quickly shove the blade back into its envelope, hiding it again. I take the letter, written on a fresh, clean piece of lines paper, and fold it. I put that under my bed along with the knife.
I don't know why I sometimes feel so desperate for death, and then the next minute I am appalled by the thought. Maybe it is insanity, finally knocking on my door. Finally whispering my name, asking me to go and join his other recruits.
I know that I won't do it. I'm not brave enough to impale my own flesh. I am not strong enough to watch my own steaming blood prance down my ocher skin.
Sometimes, I am sure of myself, saying that I'd never hurt my own body in a million years. At other times, I feel like I am trapped and there is only one way out.
For now, I am content.
But I never know when the call of the blade will taunt me and call my name again.
