Instead, she would sit, staring at the bottle, to keep her mind off the small sharp razor that she had once bought cheap in a jumble sale. It was an old-school razor, like the ones in the black-and-white movies, and she had found it fascinating until it became frightening because her knuckles were white from holding on to the table so she would not reach out for it again.
Because she knew that if she touched it
she would start again on that spiral
where lines of red blossomed, like pathways
down, down, down to god knows where.
If there was a god (was there?)
he probably wasn't there either.
It was where she stood alone
as she always had
in her own blood.