i dont know why i like to bleed,
to draw lines on my arms and my legs
with razors and scissors and knives.
i dont know why i like to make scars,
to feel pain,
and ultimately numb.

i do it until i have bled out all the anxiety, and fear
and spiraling thoughts,
and aching sadness,
until all i can feel is a searing line of pain and
all i can see is a tear of red
trailing down my leg.
i dont know why each time i do it
i think itll be the last,
that after this one last time i wont ever have to do it again.
i dont know why i dont consider the repercussions of my actions.
that i will have permanent gashes that will slowly fade from
red
to pink
to brown
to white.
that people will ask,
why i wont have an answer.
why i wont ever be able to be comfortable in shorts and a t-shirt.
and i dont know why i still want to do it.
to destroy my skin and my body and my mind.
there must be something wrong in my brain,
some flayed wire, a short circuit that would explain
why i feed off of pain and my own self-inflicted misery.
why i want to feel and be covered with and surrounded by self-hatred.
i dont know why.
i dont know why.