stitches.
that won't do the trick,
this pain is far too deep for any stitch to mend.
I look down at my arms,
what have I done?
not again.
they trusted me,
and I let them down.
what am I to do?

they thought I was better -
when I just got better at lying.
I'm not proud of these wounds I've carved into my soul;
it has all just taken a toll.
i couldn't handle it any longer.

I look back down,
why can't I feel anything?
I pick up the blade one more time,
I dig so deep I can see where all my veins intertwine.
relief.
one giant exhale escapes my mouth.

I look out of my window,
& find the little kids next door playing with their dad.
I smile.
but wait...
I look down at my arms,
I stare.
& remember my scars are the only thing that people gaze at no matter what I wear.

but don't worry I'm not 'sick' again,
I just had some stuff I needed to drain.
please, don't send me back to that locked up place.
a mental hospital isn't going to fix this case.

this was the last time, I swear it.
I want nothing more than to quit.
I start to think,
I pick up the blade once more,
and begin to create a masterpiece of pain until I get to the core.
a soul wrenching pain begins to swallow me,
when will I ever be free?

what have I done?
**not again.