You hurt, and you come to me.
It is a common mistake,
But can prove to be a lethal one.

I will tell you,
Day upon day,
Night after night,
That your life will not get better.
Has not. Cannot. Should not.

You rip me from a pencil sharpener,
Or from the thing you use to shave your legs.
You hate me,
Want to throw me out,
But no longer does it matter.

I see your tears an I absorb them.

Your face is so ugly when you cry.
You are beautiful,
And you give me the power to destroy that.
I love taking everything you care about,
Away from you in a singular moment.

You are sitting on the side of the bath tub.
I am in your hand, already sharp and poignant.
You lift me, and I get excited.
This is my time, I shout.
But will you survive it?

You are playing a game of Russian Roulette, my child.
I am a dangerous vice to keep hidden.
Your parents don't know,
Seeing as you wear sweatshirts even in the dead of summer.

The unforgiving letter on your wrists falls on deaf ears.
Considering that the only people who know,
Would not dare confront you.
They think they are protecting your friendship.
At that, I laugh.

You are no longer in control of your hand.
You follow me along the outlines on your arm.
And I am your instinct.
It is only a matter of time before you cut a little too deep,
And scare the hell out of yourself.

One question remains.
Why do you turn to me?
As some source of peace or escape?

I only give you partial pleasure,
For when I hit your skin,
I go knock on the doors,
Of my friends the Endorphin family.

However, they are getting older,
And the son Dopamine can has a curfew to make.
He will only stay present for so long.

You find yourself longing for more time with them.
So the next day, you cut again,
And you hate it.
But without fail, you still find relief.

I am a vicious cycle.
Soon enough your suicide note will be written in red.
Whether you hoped to die or not.

Your life is not your own anymore.