I sit with them and think a blissful thought
What if I stab my neck and bloody rivers
Will come cascading wildly from my throat...
Dark dream or last resort, it sends me shivers.
This fantasy keeps flickering in my mind, 
‎A brutal image, sharp and soaked in red. 
‎A silent scream, a different way to find 
‎Attention... though I'd rather not be dead. 
I dream of slit that would adorn my neck
Like bow or necklace, pretty neatly tied.
‎What would he do - will he be horrified, 
Or try to help and catch my flowing blood? 
‎I have to try and see how it'll turn out.
Hand reaches for dagger, stops and weakly falls 
‎Mouth opens, closes - the usual routine 
‎My fingers picked - the usual bloody tint...
Nobody turns or notices or calls. 
‎Is in that stab a bitter dark release, 
‎A fleeting moment of distorted peace? 
Or illusory power born of pain, 
‎Where silence screams, and loss becomes my gain?
The words unsaid, they fester in my chest, 
‎A heavy weight that presses, dark and deep. 
‎I dream of a scene, a final, gruesome feast, 
‎Where crimson flows and secrets that I keep 
‎Are forced to light in spectacle of pain. 
‎They wouldn't listen to a whispered plea, 
‎But gaping wound, a scarlet, awful stain, 
‎Would scream the truths they never heard from me. 
But even then, would understanding bloom? 
‎Or just more silence in a darkened room?  
‎But even then, as darkness takes its hold, 
‎I wonder if my story will be told? 
‎But even then, what would they truly see? 
‎Me or just the horror, separate from me?