Once I was A poem; lines of love and hope
Now I'm just forgotten  art;
I can't remember when my wrists turned into paintings with line cuts and scars
looking less and less like wrists and more like a canvas
But my scars aren't art and neither am I;
I cut and cut and cut and cut until my arms are crosses and jagged lines
This life is not for me

I am paper : I'm meant to be cut
I am just a match; I'm meant to be burnt
I am just a balloon; my Heart is meant to be popped

And I wish I could fix this
I wish I was okay
I wish
I wish
I wish
But it doesn't matter
Because I don't
Stuck in a whirlpool of my own pain

this is because i am...
I am a artist
I am a poet
I am a cutter
I am a starver
I am a mess of scars
And broken pieces
But the problem is
I am me
When I look in the mirror
All I see is a mistake
A little mess
Of pain And starving
And the scars all along my body
A problem
A smudge on humanity
But that's who I am
I guess I have to accept that