My Special Friend

Today I heard a call.
One from an old friend.
It's been so long since I've heard that voice,
I can't even comprehend.

Weeks and months, even years long gone,
Since I've heard that sound.
It's sinfully tempting to hear, and yet,
I find myself unwound.

My dear old Friend you see,
is not a person or place.
My old friend is an object,
An object with a face.

A pocket knife, so small and safe.
It's useful so I hear.
But what I used it for, you see,
is why it is so dear.

My special friend, my pocket knife,
acquired a certain taste.
It's for that reason can you see,
that it has a face.

It's hunger was so ravenous,
I can't even begin to tell,
I used to believe for quite awhile,
that it was my living hell.

My pocket knife always screamed for blood,
it's voice was sweet but demanding.
I never hesitated; never questioned.
I gave into the commanding.

Who knew that such a little thing,
one meant to be so safe,
Was the reason that I screamed at night,
as if I saw a wraith.

That's why you never see me,
around with my old friend.
Because I know that if I did,
it would be my end.

And though it's voice is sweet, yet demonic,
it's called to me before.
I closed my eyes real tightly,
and I managed to ignore.

If the voice dies out,
I'll be free to breathe again
but if I am not careful,
and I don't know when.

My special friend is waiting,
For me to hear the call.
But I'll have to lose myself,
to want to end it all.