Face in the Knife

I slit my wrist and look at the knife,
A reflection of a face etched in strife,
Crimson tinted and cold to touch,
I didn’t expect it to hurt so much,
The face in the metal screams in pain,
I'm tempted to aid it but I refrain,
This anguish is my last as I bleed out,
I cannot help cry; I cannot help shout,
I cover the gape and discard the blade,
So deep in regret to the phone I wade,
I dial a number; what I can’t see,
A kind woman tries to talk to me,
My vision fades in a fatal attack,
My last words failed as the world goes black.