My emotions are obstreperous once more,
I cannot think straight; this sensation I abhor.
The impulse is too strong and the relapse is near,
it's racing through my bloodstream - that alone is clear.
It's screaming at me to be released quickly,
and the anxiety building up is making me feel sickly.

I reach for the blade after four months clean,
why to myself must I be so mean?
It burns and stings as I drag it across my wrist,
every sin and feeling is freed into the midst.
This is yet another battle that I have managed to lose,
another fifty wounds leaking out a red sea and I have lit the fuse.