At the young age of fifteen I dragged a blade across my skin
After fingers went way down my throat.
And sure, I felt like Hell, and I knew it was wrong
But, honey, I was going to look like Heaven sent me down.

It had become apparent to me that no one was going to believe
That some poor, lonely girl could ever become problematic
Because she didn’t look the part
And so she could never ever play it.

So I knew that I had something going for me
Even though I still doubted that I really belonged.
Because, sure, love, I had no one there,
But that also meant that I received no unwanted questions.

There was a little voice inside my head,
My conscience, holder of my sense of rights and wrongs,
Telling me it wasn’t right, it hurt,
Telling me that I should stop before I went too far.

But the voice telling me the reasons I should was stronger.
It’s not like anyone will care, it said, you have no one.
All people want is someone who will look like who you’re going to become,
Then you’ll have friends, real ones this time, it said.

Sadly to say, or so I’m told, it’s supposed to be sad,
I went on and on doing stupid things,
Not once caring about how much I was destroying myself,
How I only continued to feel worse and more alone.

Day after day, I did the same **** things that I had been
Told were wrong for any young person to do.
Yes, it really was something that I was not proud of
Ask around, or don’t, it’s not as though I told a single soul.

I did not want them to feel bad for me
I did not want their fake pity and concerned glances
I did not want to find out that I was only wanted
When I was troubled and nothing but a charity case to be fixed.

A few months passed and only red marks
Resembling lines, some straight, some intertwined,
Of sadness and shame that I still felt,
Were how I chose to release everything I felt.

I was not concerned with anything more than being
Alone and able to chose how my life was
Without anyone else trying to dictate my life for me.
I was not letting those I don’t like write my story.

Only later would I find out that I am able to
Write my story myself and call my own shots.
There are still purple marks all over forearms and thighs.
But, for the next few months, I may just be alright.

I did not feel the need to do anything stupid
Anything that I could not undo or fix.
And so, for a few months, I was alright.
I somehow found the will to fight myself.

I found that I had the power to decide not to do this
It was really nice, you know?
And so, for the time being, I really am happy.
The issue is, the problem is myself,