I'm a wonderful writer when I'm crying.
Ever tear a letter,
Every gasp for air a sentence,
Every scream in my head a paragraph.
It all spills out directly through the tip as ink,
And at this point I swear I could have written a novel.

But what do these cuts equal?

What is every drop, forming at every perfect horizontal rip, equivalent to?

If I kept going maybe the voices in my head would tell me.
I'm mad at myself, mad for going back.
But I forgot how it felt to be so hopeless.

I never felt hopeless at the bottom of the bottle,
But now I cant turn to bottles and the razors beg me to allow them to comfort me.

I'm no longer hopeless.
A little ****** up in the head but that's okay,
I  knew that already.
I mean what kind of kid turns to harming themselves for comfort?
I can't explain it, I'm not sure what kind of kid I am anymore.

Rock Bottom.
There's no chance of ever forgetting it.
Apparently I'd much rather it be pounded into my head every second.
That's how I was raised though, why should I expect anything different.
Every little mistake must be branded.
So I sit here and brand myself,
Line after line.
At least the pain writes "I'm Alive"