There are times when poetry does not consol me. Times when the steady blade of my knife is all that binds me to this world. Slice. Cut. Slash. I carve through thin skin and pale flesh.
When I'm through my arm are dripping and wet, the knife a sticky mess on the counter. I feel faint, but the anger is gone. Now there is only emptiness.
With trembling fingers I measure out the little white powder, so crucial to my sanity, and arrange it carefully, exactly as I have done so often before.
Time passes, I am not sure how long. Inhaling deeply, I wipe the sweat from my brow and hold out my arms to examine my work.
With a bitter smile I realize that I've done it.
My Apple Pie is complete.