A searing agony races through my veins
As my heart, fragile and horribly sad as it is, is
Once again betrayed; into a million pieces it breaks,
And I watch as a person I held so dear walks away once more.
I lock all the exits and bolt the windows shut,
Glancing around to see if I am, truly, alone again in the house;
I sit in the giant, plush, leather chair and sink
Into it, my eyes holding back liquid; it burns.
My heartbeat is frantic and painful against my ribs,
My lungs straining to take in enough air to satisfy,
But my mind begins to question what it is I am doing,
And tells me to let it all go.
I get up, my knees weak and wobbly from the tsunami of despair,
And make my way slowly to the old chestnut writing desk;
From one heavy, dark drawer emerges a glass
And a delicately sharpened ceremonial knife.
I sit down in my favorite spot, that comfortable chair
And put the wine glass gently on the desk,
Twirling the knife between my fingers and watching
As it glistens beautifully in the soft candle light.
The whispers in the empty silence grow louder, more urgent,
And I feel I must obey their orders;
I drag the knife up my forearm deep,
And do the same to its twin.
I shudder and wince, but place my arms
Over the wine glass where the blood pools
To create a thick, rich, ruby liquid,
As if the devil's finest wine.
