Razor

Enter the mind of a sixteen yearold male, a hurt scared and unloving sixteen.

Razors

I hear them.
They’re talking about me.
Whispering soft, hurtful things,
Things meant to hurt, to anger, but
It doesn’t get to me,
It doesn’t hurt me.

I gaze into the darkness,
Deep dark thoughts enter my head,
The pain blurs everything
The world is a dark color, but
It doesn’t get to me,
It doesn’t hurt me.

I look at the razor,
Sharp, shiny, ready
It longs for me and I long for it
It’s meant to hurt, to scar, but
It doesn’t get to me,
It doesn’t hurt me.

Cold, hard metal on me,
I can no longer feel anything,
Neither seeing, nor touching
The life drips out of me,
I’m ready…
It doesn’t get to me,
It doesn’t hurt me.


B. William