The Blade

This is my poem on self-harm. It's pretty short; but please be nice!

The Blade

A knife sits in the chair, jarringly out of place.
Stained with dried brown;
Adorned though it once was with warm scarlet.
The pathos surrounds it with a vibrant, mournful aura-
As dense as a pyre’s smoke, but no more solid than a breath.