The knife

I look at a knife and stare at its edge,

watching it slice through things on the wooden wedge.

Thinking how it would slit, the tender skin,

below the jaw and under the chin.

I bring it close, to a racing vein,

Piercing slowly and ignoring the pain.

Something back of my head, shouts, " more and more",

the strangest of pleasures, like I have never felt before.

I'm tired of the clouds and tired of the rain,

my new found friend is the burning pain.