Is it bad to want the feeling of the blade slice through my pale flesh?
To see the blood form in beads on the thin lines on my thigh?
Not even flinching as the blade pierces my skin and laughing when it's over.
It's like I am drawn to the blade,
It's right there for me to pick up and scar my precious skin.
I get told to stop, but I do it again and again.
Like my flesh is asking to be cut.
Normal.
That's what it is for me now.
I used to do it for a reason, but now I do it to feel something other than pain.
To feel something other than the pain and hurt I am continuously reminded of.
So fast things change, from a young, innocent, happy child.
To a dark, pained, scarred teenager.
Oh well.

That sense of release, that sense of happiness.
Like a drug to some, a painful memory for others.
But it's the same sense of release.
The same sense of release that made some girl **** herself, the same that made some boy hurt others.
It's all dangerous.
Not that anyone cares, they keep doing it.
They keep hurting themselves until they've done something wrong.
They've burned their flesh too much, they've cut a nerve.
It's all the same and no one can stop it.

All I need is pen and paper,
So I can drown my sorrows,
In words.

Lots and lots of words,
All meaningless to others,
But everything to me.

Some are happy,
But most are sad.
Because sad is what I am.

I touch the ink to the blank page,
The words start pouring out.
Until there's no room.

Stuck with a dilemma,
I must keep it inside.
Because I have no pen and paper.