Like a ballet dance on blades,
Your mind is a fickle thing.
 
Relevé, going fully en pointe
On razorblades,
Slice your sole to sorry shreds--
So very fucking sorry.
 
It doesn't do a damn thing to relieve the pressure,
Your weight, the weight of your many failures
Continues to cut into the meat of your foot,
Your leg.
 
Soon, and it's up to your thigh,
Tearing you,
Spreading you,
But, that's nothing new.
 
You slip,
Fall,
And the edge is wedged in your stomach--disgusting--
You are--can't go without something filling you up for even a little bit, eh?
 
Intestines divided with a squelch,
Into little bits like macaroni and hot dogs;
Pancreas and kidneys falling out,
Like useless bags of blood and spongy meat.
 
Soon, you've sunk down,
(Or has the blade been thrust up?)
Far enough that your ribs are uneven, a pyramid staircase,
And your lungs are wet with watery blood that seeps in.
 
(Is it always like this?)
Certainly not, you think;
(Can it go on much longer?)
Certainly not, you think.
 
It can't be long before you're split right down the middle,
You think.