Red Wrists

by Brian Matthew Kessler

I am starring at my wrists. I am thinking how lovely they would look in red. Not just any red... the red of oxidized iron... of rust... of blood... of my blood... of fresh blood... fresh from the very wrists it paints.

I have a knife. I could do it. I should do it. I won't do it. For better or for worse self preservation sets in and starts the wheels of internal turmoil turning and keeps the fires of rage burning. I would like to think and believe it is for the better, but I know this is not accurate. It is not even approximate. It is certainly not realistic.

So why do I allow this strife? Why not over-ride this terrible instinct? Could I be any worse off then I am now, spiralling down an eternal abyss of depression, grasping hopelessly at holographic ledges of salvation, watching the illusions disappear as my hand goes to reach for them. And of the few that are real, when touched they crumble... I just keep falling down the abyss.

It's past eleven 'o clock and none are well. I'm getting awfully sick of that ringing bell that calls to the fools that should be strung on ropes. I would love to see them hang. And I would cut their ropes so that they too fall into the abyss.

I say nay to the knife, but know not why. Eventually, I am already bound to die. Perhaps a chain saw would be tempting. Watch those blades keep turning. It might tickle just a bit.

I need the end. It calls to me as I search for it. But the echoes lead me in vain. I can not find it, as I can not find the way out of the abyss. The way out is not up because all ways are down; down below the deepest depths of hell.