Author Information
Razorblade Romance
Sitting on the shelf,
Sparking, gleaming silver,
So clear, so clean,
Reaching up and grasping the sliver of metal,
fingerprints staining the sides,
Looking at her reflection,
Running it under water to warm it up,
Putting the still hot razor to her flesh,
Cutting, slicing,
Blood pouring down her arms,
She gasps at the sudden pain,
Then sighs in pleasure as it recedes,
Indulging herself in a little Razorblade Romance,
it's the only way to end the pain . .
The Pain
Is, like the razor, self induced, just change what you think about (subject of the poem) and think in techincolor instead of chiroscuo (black and shades of gray against darker grays, and some white). Then razorblades will always be a subject in poetry - to die is a different slate, life is the mauscript, the pallet, the page upon which to create an almost to man although I patch it as I can monument, legacy...death and dying is easy, living is the hard part, always has been. - Be well...Lady A