K
NI
  VES
          are sharp
             in birth but
               blunt against
                   words. Though
                 I have become
                  used to pulling
                   knives from my
                   back, the words
                  that are said are
                    dropping pebble
                       in a still pond, rip-
                      pling through my
                      soul till the end of
                       days. Wounds heal,
                       right? The pain still
                        feels too fresh. And
                        do scars fade? How
                                          many do I have? Oh                  
                          well. I guess, no, I am
                           grateful, to be honest.
                             For every knife, I've cut
                             the cords of things unn-
                                ecessary. But the demons
                                     plague. My face is but stone.
                   My tears are void.
                   My heart is black.
                 The bare slashes
                  on me, I can deal
                  with. I can cope.
                 I can cope well.
                  I can cope. I can
                   cope. I can cope.
                     I-I-I just wish for
                  one thing. I just
                 wish that I was
                  easy to fix. I wi-
                  sh it was easy to
               breathe. Am I
              dying? Here?
            Alone? Yes...I
               am, aren't I? Fr-
                om my first bre-
               ath, I slowly be-
       gan to die.