Cliche

Sitting on the porcelain edge of the sink,
It gleams in the harsh electrical light
Of the bathroom. The rubber handle
Sits perfectly between the fingers,
Moulded to the joints for comfort.

It's dark outside.
Rain is hammering against the window,
As it always does in poems like this.
The razor is beckoning me,
Inviting me to become another teenage clich?.

I hold it up to the light and stare
Into the blades. My reflection is
Diminutive distorted and disenchanted.
Even then I look cynical.
I don't believe in what the razor has to offer.

I can envision it. I am, after all, an artist.
I can see the thin, long lines of red against
My skin, dripping onto the white bathmat.
It would make a beautiful film scene.

I place the razor back on the sink
And look at myself in the mirror,
Smiling, shaking my head.
Too easy.
Far too easy.