Nighttime is the hardest

because everyone who loves me

--or at least who I hope loves me--

is asleep.

Even if I needed to talk,

they would not be there.

I envy those who can forget their fears

and fall to heavy sleep.

As for me, I'm still awake,

accompanied by the hate.

The hate for myself, that detestable loathing

that brings me to the point.

But to what point?

Is it the point of repentance?

No, not at all.

I've not travelled far enough for that.

Is it the point of no return?

Not quite yet.

But perhaps to the point of a blade;

that could soothe the hate.

This blade goes not in smoothly, though;

it has a barb that warns my rashness.

Secrecy is needed.

Evidence must remain forbidden from the world.

I hope that these scratches will fade by morning;

I do not want the questions,

for I do not have the answers.

At least not very good ones.

I hate this hate that leads to yet more of itself.

The hate for my failures

that ruptures into the hate of the blade,

that blade that hates my flesh.

The thing I fear is not the pain,

but that I may push the blade yet deeper.

The damage now is only skin deep,

yet there is future danger for my marrow.