To Cut or not to Cut

To cut or not to cut- that is the question:
Whether 'tis easier to cope with the pain
Deep in the root of my stomach,
And avoid the sweet sensation,
Or to give in to my potent desires,
And, by giving in, disturbing the balance of my blood.
To not to cut, to slice the tenderness of the skin-
No more- And by no longer cutting
Free myself from the sweet temptation
That the object holds-
'Tis what captivates me.
To cut, to slice-
To slice, perchance too deeply, Ay, there's the conflict,
For doing so makes my hands covered
In a sticky red substance,
That stains my white sleeves.
That's only when
I'm sure to regret succumbing
To this inclination.
Not only that, The illness-
which plagues me entirely-
Shortens my endurance
And gives reason why
The pierce be skidded to a halt.
No other would dare do so;
None would have the audacity
To damage one's own well-being,
No matter how small and insignificant
Is done by prying of blade.
Shall I? The unscathed surface,
It beckons-no,
It mocks me- Like I fear striking the immobile object.
Yet I do in fact fear to hold thy wooden handle,
For one quick strike would be the end,
The end of control and reveal mine indulgence,
Which exemplifies weakness and lack of power.
Alas, to not cut flaunts mine insecurity,
For what harm would cutting it once do?
Oh, the harm! My doctor advises me not to,
Said he my insides will turn infectious ,
And even one try would put me in ruin.
Hesitate I shall no more! Conclusion hast arrived,
Awaiting final decision of mine.
I must cut and see red on thy metal!
No Hyperglycemia, nor any other plague
Will confine me any longer.
At last, I take knife by hand, only one hand,
And clutch tightly and place tip lightly upon the peel,
And finally cut the fruit in half, this pomegranate.