Irony’s Blade

the blade held in my hand

is my security

not knowing myself, or what I do

grip keeps me steady

connecting with skin

pushing down and in

satisfying slice

numb when it begins

fragile lines of crimson

tiny trickles on flesh of white

sting of unraveling

wrong and sickly right

trails and rivers of blood

escaping, flooding, release

visible chaos, unflowing

twisted sense of peace

drawing out the pain

the hurt is visible

purging with red stain

breathing now possible

soaked in what I feel

scarred by what’s inside

for a moment free and open

I do not have to hide

self-destruction is my healing

find calm through razor and knife

somehow it makes sense

in dying, I feel alive