The razor

In my place i have this razor. I've had it for months. Its dark in colour and amazingly sharp.
I once nicked myself with it and due to the sharpness i never felt a thing, just blood and a thin sliver of separated skin. I know i should get rid of it, not because there is any risk of tetanus or hiv, but because of the shadow.

I really don't have any creative name for my bipolar and depression. It is just a cold shadow that engulfs my soul whenever it feels like it. Makes me hate myself and my life. Most of the time i don't even know when it comes in, i just find myself over a flyover over a road willing myself not to jump a few milliseconds ahead of an oncoming vehicle.

Death is a close friend, keeping tabs on when i'll do it. Always hovering and waiting. He must have gotten excited that day i nicked myself in the dance of death. A game of chess with my life. I came to with the razor having broken skin, albeit slightly. This close and they'd both have their way.
Sometime i think death doesn't want me to go to heaven. He won't take me the way he does others, an accident, a sickness or even murder. He knows i know the exact spot on my wrist, where there is the ever so slight pulsating of the life flowing beneath.

But he knows i love life and i love; the only barrier between us. He's had a taste of my blood and together they convince me to take the easy road.

As i walk the road of life, i hear their voices sung to the tune of the razor.