So tell me dear. Assuage my fears.
That these tears don't flow in vain.
Your self harming is disarming.
Such an alarming way to cope with pain.

So I'm still waiting for your self hating to start abating but you won't listen.
And so you cry, afraid to die, the blood is dry. Still knife glistens.

So you wear wrist bands. Trace scars on your hands. Give into demands of your heart soaked in crimson. So draw the blade when the scars fade and don't you dare evade the questions.

Will you not come home? Are you not alone? Aren't we made of stone, of which will crumble? Is there too much strife to get things right? 'I hate my life,' she mumbles.