One bothered night,
I hopelessly tried
to draw closure to
this self-inflicted misery.
But with the blade worn dull,
I only scored the surface
of this withered flesh.
It could be
so simple -
if only i wanted it bad enough
But I make it so complicated,
by choosing a tired dagger-
which has diced to many tomatoes.
Either way, my last call has been called.
The splinters in my palms
serve as a small reminder,
of the damage undone,
one bothered night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem