I draw on my body in pen where I once drew with a knife.
I breathe deep and recall when I gave up on life.
I sit still to remember though there's no way I could forget,
the days I gave no regard for years I hadn't lived yet.

To live in utter hatred for yourself is something I can't explain.
It's impossible to put words to that intimate pain.
Never so lonely as when I'm surrounded, so why,
when I'm loved and cared for, do I most want to die?

I hide to conceal my brokenness.
Some faults are easier than others to confess.
Do not test my limits, I am too jaded to cry,
but when you ask if I'm ok, I will always lie.

I beg, don't ask why
Just please let me die.