another poem rough; supposed to be right justified, but hey-
Red Lament

He sits alone in the kitchen
twisting the knife in to the hilt
groping further with the tip,
desperate.
Everything is red, now-
the table, the tile, his hands around the
handle of the blade, slick with color
spilling from the other wounds
he has made, but he is
numb.
The white pills he painstakingly
placed on his tongue have
calmed his nerves, long enough,
he hopes, for him to find his
remaining
lung.

He wakes, staring into light,
feels bandages holding his life in,
and cries.
Again, the poison in his vein.
Again, the scalpels along his spine.