Les Zig

(1989) I hold the point of the knife to my belly. Dare myself. I feel the point prick my skin. And there’s the possibility I might, I just might, thrust, and impale myself. A friend tried to take his own life this way; he told me as he felt the blade going in, he couldn’t keep pushing – it wasn’t so much the pain, but the sickening realization of what was happening. But I’m not standing here with the intent of taking my own life. It’s the thoughts around knives. The feelings. The uneasiness. Images flash through my head that I’ll seize a knife and thrust it into somebody. But…