When you were little, you played with toys in this room. But now, you play with razors.
Instead of drawing with crayons, you draw with razors.
I always knew I'd grow out of my toys someday, but I never thought I'd replace them with razors.
The razors dance across my skin, carving a story only I can understand.
These razors are my toys now.
Sitting in my childhood room, blood flowing from my wrists and tears pouring from my cheeks,
I wonder why I had to grow up.

My art teacher requires me to have an x-acto knife in my possession.
This, my friend, is a bad idea.
You see, she is blissfully unaware of my harmful tendencies.

But I can assure you, that if there's one thing I know,
it's that knife will be used on more than an art project.

School in itself is a trigger.
Knives and razors are the index finger that pulls said trigger,
setting off an explosion of blood along my wrist.

See, dear art teacher, that knife will hit my skin,
whether I want it to or not.
In a moment of weakness,
of stress,
I will turn to that available outlet.

I do not know what is scarier.
Having that knife with me every day,
or knowing that a twisted part of me wants to use it.

(d.d.b)

The feeling of the blade running across your skin.
The blood dripping down your legs, and arms.
The numb feeling going all over your body.
Is that what you wanted in the first place.
Not to feel your pain.
Also not having those horrible thoughts in your mind.
After awhile those thoughts will come back with bigger urges...

Don't cut,
my dear.
Without blood,
how will you blush
when I hold you?

Don't hate
yourself.
You've nothing
to loathe.
Especially with
me beside you
every step of the way.

Don't pierce,
my dear.
Your heart
has taken
the arrow
too much for
the skin to
take the needle.

Don't drink,
my dear.
I'm sure
your lips
are intoxicating
without it.

Don't cry,
my dear.
I would prefer
that your eyes
were clear,
so I could give
the gazing
they are overdue.

Don't laugh,
my dear.
I may live
because of you.

She's proud of herself and she won't tell you why
It's been almost a week since she last even tried
But the voices won't stop and today they won
Will she go for the blade or end it all with a gun?

After hours of crying and arguing with herself
She gives in and opens the hidden box in her shelf
Overwhelmed with emotions she selects her blade
Oddly delighted with the choice that she's made

So once again she takes a razor to her vein
Without even flinching and feeling no pain
Well there is pain of course but it is mistaken  for praise
She is lacking in judgment because of the daze

She sits there emotionless as blood pours from her wrist
Giving in to that feeling she's so long resist
A smile crosses her face as it spills down her arm
She's caught in the evil we know as self harm