The note now lies in the drawer of my bedside table.
Before then it was on the bed, drenched in tears.
The pain written on it means nothing compared to the actual pain I felt in that moment.
None of the pain was physical, I don't remember the sting of the razor.
All I remember was the music and the blood.
Both were dripping all around me.
Both were bright red.
Both were death.
The music was screaming at me while my life silently rolled down my wrist.
"Punk-rock." They said when they saw that I had done it the right way.
The right way.
The way to get it done.
I guess I knew this one was different because I couldn't see a bottom to the red chasm.
"I think I cut too deep." I said to no one.
"Did I mean to do that?" I said to myself.
"I think I need stitches." I said to my parents.
"You cut really deep." He said to no one.
"Did you mean to do that?" He said to me.
"He's gonna need stitches." He said to my parents.
"Why were the cuts so deep?" They said to me.
"Did you mean to do that?" They said to me.
"How many stitches did you need?" They said to me.
I said to them it was all an accident.
Nothing I do is accidental.
Everything has a reason.
I cut myself for a reason.
I cut too deep for a reason.
I left a note for a reason.
I went to my parents' room for a reason.
I told them I wouldn't do it again for a reason.
I always answer with "I'm doing better." for a reason.
Nothing I do is accidental.
Everything has a reason.