The memory of pain often colors
My mind when all the walls of it turn dark.
The light scars that I have from hobby knives
Yearn loud and loud to open up once more.
The blades scream loud as I suppress my cries
And yet they beg and beckon for my thighs.

Shall I  go once more and see my own blood
Leave the indents made on my mortal skin?
Or shall I let the screams of my turmoil
Bleed into ev'ry situation I'm in?