Release

No, not a firearm
That may be too much for
you to bear or, further,
anyone else
whom I fancy cares.

I could find a razor,
etch a long, clean line
like I used to
in school. I can almost feel
the pleasure from sheer contemplation.

It would give me what I need
most at this moment:
release. And you wouldn’t even know,
couldn’t be harmed.
See how much I care?

But then if I did draw
lines on my arm,
my wrist, paint my limbs
in scarlet relief,
what then?

Would that set me back
ten, fifteen years
when weakness ruled
fully clad, masquerading
in triumph’s robes?

All my hard work
down the drain.
Should I swallow that lump
once more. Could I?
But what about

Release?