In conversation.

Frail fingers clutched the glistening blade, mere inches away from porcelain skin.
Torn between the voices of darkness and light , it awaits
the verdict of conscience.

"The bliss of darkness awaits thee, why art thee waiting?
Let the blade pierce the skin and let the crimson of thou blood stain the earth."

"Hark not to those words beloved, thee art not weak to fall into temptation. 
Doth not douse the flame of life , for if put out, it cannot be rekindled."

"And what hath this life bestowed upon thee, apart from pain and suffering?
Why must thou be forced to live, if death is what thee wish for?"

"Thou life is a beautiful gift unto thee and those dear to thee.
Thou future is far more precious to valinquish over a few days of torment."

"And how would thee know, that the future would not bring more agony?
Why must thou suffer when thee has't the power to cease the pain?"

"Think for a moment, thou would hurt those whom thou claimed to hath loved.
Thee would always exist as a painful memory in those distressed hearts."

The blade falls down, disappearing into darkness.
The flame of life burns brighter, chasing away the temptation.