one night

My hands and feet burn when I try to sleep, my forehead.  Burning.  I press my hands against cold walls.
Terrible nightmares, or nothing at all.
Where is she?
You try to believe, that fear is nothing more.
But you know, the world ending might be the best thing that could ever happen.  So many heartfelt confessions of love.  Admissions of guilt, remorse, forgiveness.
I would never lie to you, because I have no-one else to tell the truth to.

Flashback. 
To feeling for glass, on my knees in the dark.
The broken glass, black in the night.
It cuts my fingers, and feels like the end of the world.
The black glass feels like death.

         Another cold home around me.  How many have I been in?
         Hundreds now.  All so similarly unique.
         I stare at the blank walls alone and burn in the cold.  Shame and guilt.
         At nothing.
         I would pray if I didn’t fear an answer.
         
Are you alone now?
 
         I can see her.  I close my eyes to the grey cold and I can see her, I can see her pale eyes.
(you think : you've heard once, how heroin addicts have switched surroundings and it's the change of familiar sights, sounds and smells that causes an overdose, not just the drug.  Their body had no time to prepare).
         I'm not offering any new insight on depression.  You offer the insight if you have to.

The sweetness of decay sickens my breath, weakens my limbs.  This is what I believe.  My mind is searching, hurt and searching for solace. 
Lost inside.
A mirror stares back and raw eyes search for recognition.
I don’t know this face. 
What is this feeling, this slow loss of life.
I feel myself dying with every second and there is no sign.
Nothing to cry out with.  All these eyes on me seeing nothing. 
The knife is cold and simple, my skin white and blank as the walls.
I scratch marks on the walls and no one feels what I feel.
Self obsession chokes on its on fear and my skin is cold and simple.
I scar the glass, across the reflection of my face.
The mirror breaks.  The skin opens.
No pain, just the cold.  No eyes but my merciful own.
The blood runs, escapes across the white skin and is black as glass at night.

Where are you?  Why aren’t you here for me.
You can’t forget about me now.

         No pain.
         Just burning hands in the cold.
         The edge slips against the beautiful face as I wait for a phone-call, the door, anything to pull me back.  But nothing will come.  No one will ever see.
         And I choke as I feel the steel move down my pale, pale face.
         
(you feel: weak and unsteady, never sure, melancholy)

A blood red knife looks black on a night floor.

         The curtains light quickly, the dull flame so harmless to the eye.
         I sit back in the centre of the room and stare out into the street.  Even now, I look for her face.
         The heat rushes back against me and now my hands and feet are cold.
         Now the knife flickers dark red as malice.
         Now there is fear and nothing more.
         And I sit still.
         
         (you feel :          )

         Now is too late, when even the end of the world can’t save you.
         Drowning in smoke, voices at the door, I’ll never quite die and never quite survive.