Dying Soul

My soul is dying... It's ripped apart.
I gave of myself... All of my heart.

I was told... It's alright,
But my heart... no longer wants to fight.

I try not to cry... I try to hold on,
Why in the hell.. does it take so long?

I don't heal.. I always feel pain,
When it disappears.. it comes right back again.

I know this doesn't make sense to you, but it does to me. To be told by three men, whom I hold dear that they love me, they need me, they want to spend their lives with me. They know I see them only as close friends, but they still spoke there feelings.

And the one man I do love, the one that has had my heart for nearly 11 years seems to have trouble loving me, or at least expressing his love.

This pain I feel inside my heart and soul is the worst kind of pain. It is worse than any physical pain I could suffer.

I see a blade there, on my desk. I keep it to cut things with, like the newspaper off the edges of puzzles after I glue them, or yarn that has tangled up. It seems to call for a new taste, for one it hasn't had in many years. It no longer longs for the taste of paper or string, foam or plastic... it calls for the coppery, bitter taste of warm blood. Of the flesh that covers a week, helpless soul.

The smooth silver blade calls to me, to hold and caress it with printed finger tips.. its sharp edge longs to graze across the unmarred flesh of area's unseen by those near. To coax forth the small trickle of crimson over alabaster flesh.

Only the blade has the power to draw forth the very life from this shell. But it wont take it completely. No.. the blade only wants to cause that slight sting, that minute cut against flesh to remind it that it is still alive. To tell the flesh that it can stop the pain within just for a short time. Yes, it has the power, but does the flesh have the will, the strength to give the blade what it wants?