Self harm is a disgusting
little sadistic, vile creature
who sits on my shoulder,
quiet, so quiet;
I forget he's there.
He sits and bides his time,
waiting, waiting.
Waiting, until I am
angry or lonely or depressed.

Then he whispers,
in a saccharine,
sickly sweet voice,
how much prettier I'd look,
with bite marks littering my arms.
Dark pink crescents,
over and over,
hard enough to bruise,
so that, days later,
little purpley-green marks
decorate my wrists.

Most days, I give in.
I try though, not to.
I clamp my jaw and press
my thumb into old bruises.
I know it hurts Sh-,
and that's the last thing I want.

*Show me your wrist and I
Show me your wrist and
Show me your wrist
and I'll kiss it, kiss it.