Her lifeblood runs swiftly just underneath her skin,
She picks up the razor wondering where to begin.
She thinks to herself, what a strange state she's in,
The thinks long and hard knowing this action is a sin.
The candle light flashes as she moves the blade,
The blood swells up slowly in the cut she has made.
She knows the game well, the last card has been played,
And somehow she's brave and not the least bit afraid.
The blade moves again in a long moving arc,
And then leaves a line parallel to the first mark.
She ponders the pattern; a light in the dark?
Can she be saved by a creative spark?
Once more the blade moves, now with purpose and thought,
A three-sided form, now her focus has caught.
Together, the forces that earlier fought,
Are etching her wrist with a small Celtic knot.
Now spirals spring fourth from the three pointed ends,
She next rubs in ink, with the blood it soon blends.
Thought with time and care, the once parted skin mends,
Hoping no one can read the message she sends.
