I look at my cuts
my scabs, my scars
that cover my arms and legs.
Each one a story of my pain.
My family looks at me weirdly
'why would you wear long pants
and long sleeve shirts
in the middle of summer?'
my "friends" have heard so many excuses
for the blood.

I should stop.
I could.

But when I look at my cuts
my scabs, my scars
I am reminded of the release
that cutting gives me.
That moment when the sweet pain
snatches you from the blackness in your soul
and the beautiful red runs down your arm.
And the painful tingling hugs you all day.

But I won't stop.
I can't.

Because when I look at what I've done
it calms me down.
Reminds me that even though everyone else
leaves
I still have my razors, my safety pins, my scissors.
That will hold me, when I can't see
through the blackness of my soul.