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pulling out the drawer, looking down at the blades

which one to use today?

staring down at my wrists choosing what design

one that’s easy to hide and hard to find

which arm to use?

some call it sick some call it abuse others call it crazy

but I call it truce

how much blood should spill?

I guess however much until I heal

when reminded I am broken

I start to ask where should I open?

one cut. . two cut. . three cut. .

when my knife gets decline

I seek demons who wait anxiously for my lifeline

I cut to feel

when nobody talks to you or cares, it’s the only thing that seems real

the razor the only thing I trust

when life gets too much

waking up each morning, horrified, at all these scars that must be covered

I’m the keeper and the blade is my owner

one cut.. two cut.. three cut..

in order to seal all my shame

bones is where I’ll aim

sobbing my pool of blood in horror

questioning myself everytime in the mirror

curving two vessels to see which blood comes out faster like a race

whenever painful tears get dry on my face

friends practicing what to con

while I practice what leg to draw on

always being the outcast

so I hid behind this blade is my mask

writing in my journal, how nice it must be to be normal.

one cut.. two cut.. three cut..

Slitting my guilt on my skin

pretty pictures grow bigger as the demon inside me I can’t win

making nice touches to let out my screams,

then watching as my fear flows,

closing my eyes to the afterlife I must go.


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