you are my vampire.
the blood that falls off,
drips from the slits on my wrist
or cuts on my thighs.
you cause them.
you drive your sharp teeth into me,
and level marks.
my heart with puncture wounds.
your vangs are the
nightmare
of my days.

scissors are for paper?
That's a toddler's favor.
Mine is scissors, a razor.
and these lines, my scars.
on the paper, my arms.

donnt mention my thighs,
but see thats 'different' right?
its not. I'm still cutting arent I?
and even with the doors closed they still know.
for it reeks of blood dripping off my leg
thirsty for a vampire's vang.
you can check me all day
but you'll never see the dark
inside or me.
for I cut it out so no one will see,
so that ill just be happy.

i'll cut,
not one by two.
maybe even three.
ill cut so deep
not even the doctors
can reach.
and I promise not to.
ill promise ill stop.
but I've not,
its an addiction.
its like ****,
but mines a razor.
It's like ***,
but mines my skin.
ill promise I've quit.
but not even close.
this
is uncontrollable.
a need or pull towards me.
maybe a hobby,
like drawing but my canvas
my wrist.