He takes his knife,
leans it against his wrist,
and sits . . .

Wouldn't it feel good
if he could just draw the razor-sharp surface
against his flesh?
And watch the blood well up
and drip . . .

All the pain in his head,
would drain away with his life,
and pour out of the wound
in all its sweet visciousness.
He would lean back and sit, smiling
and die . . .

And his mom would walk in
to see him lying there,
smiling peacefully at her misery.

She'll cry . . . .