Slashing, dashing,
The blade through my arm.
Bleeding, bleeding,
I don't know why it works like a charm.

I wouldn't be surprised,
If they'd be  disgusted;
They'd want myself revised,
But I'm not just  maladjusted.

Wear that mask again,
That mask that hid your pain with fakes;
And try to clean the*  blood-red  stain;
And keep doing so until your sanity breaks.

I guess that words keep me intact,
Even just to reality, I hope.
Though, with my demons, I made a pact;
*It's no use; I can't seem to mope.