I'm scared.
        Of the next time I
                     worry,
        of the urges that come
                     after.
I now fear the
             blade
more than the
            blood,
more than the monsters inside
                     my head.
        The screams become
                    louder,
        the tears run
                    harder,
everything blows into
                   oblivion.
           You look in the mirror,
           see the fear reflected
           in the edge of your
              pupils,
           dancing in the ring
               of your iris.
           The real fear is
             of yourself,
           blade in your hand,
           blood on your arms.