Half-Measures


razor cuts

I watch in morbid fascination
the quickening pulse of the vein
on the soft underside of my forearm;
each throbbing beat a silent protest
for the living of life, the loss of love,
the failure of faith in the future.

Warm blood trickles
slowly down my naked wrist
and into my loosely cupped open palm;
rivulets of life’s sweet essence
spreading out like the night-seeking
roots of a moon-flower plant.

I am amused that the heart beats unaware
of its complicity in this life-ending act,
this betrayal of self-contempt
and abject surrender.
Blood meanders across the slightly raised
scars from last year’s failed attempt,
and in that moment, I finally realize
what my father meant about the
importance of half-measures,
of keeping commitments.

So, I cut a little deeper.

3 thoughts on “Half-Measures

  1. ahh darrrk, man, and chilling- and some pretty dope writing.
    But you know, I’m sorry if you still do this to yourself. You deserve better. I slit my wrist 6 years back, had to get 30 or so stiches, and stay on the ‘ward for a while- Oddly enough, the blood was really fucking cold, which shows what kind of person I am- hah.
    You’re a really cool person, and if you’re struggling through shit I hope you know that a shit-ton of people feel the same way I do ’bout ya. Just want you to know

    Like

    1. Sorry…it was just a bit of writing that I had to get out. If I were to take a quick exit from life, it would be the booze and pills routine. Wouldn’t want to cut my pretty arms. Nerissa…you rock. I feel the same about you. Have missed your postings lately. Weill get back over to you soon.

      Like

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