one summer night, you told me
"maybe all we need is the light at the end of the tunnel,"

i use that light as a crutch; or maybe
it is the tiny figure darting away at the corner of your eyes.

it is there every time i find myself hovering
on neon yellow lights, wind slamming against my face
every time i stand too close to the road
the sensation of metal against skin until overwhelms the senses;
its imaginary; sometimes it feels like a premonition, other times a promise
all the time, its morbid.

it is with every glint of the knife;
dulled edges, the whole room smelling like iron
around water, the cold blankets me
lungs struggle for oxygen only for a mere second before liquid fills in

and then the world disappears, collapsing on itself

maybe the dark is the light at the end of the tunnel
maybe it is an angry black hole

----- its three am in the morning and my skin is crawling
angrily like i have just laid cool metal against clear skin.