By Wild Baao
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.