A Poem For The Cutter Poem by Ann Thrope

My heart's racing as I pick up the blade,
matching tempo with the pounding in my head.
As the cool, clean metal lies against my skin,
everything picks up speed.
With one swift motion,
the sharpened edge of the razor slips into my skin,
leaving behind a white-hot trail.
The cut is clean, precise.
The blood quickly follows,
filling the cut,
spilling onto my skin.
I do it again and again,
until the white noise in my head subsides,
until every voice is quieted down.
Then all is silent,
the calm before the storm.