as I watch the sink fill with my own blood I can’t help but wonder,

what the lives of others would be like without me?

they say I'm not the only one I'm hurting when I do this, but I don’t see how.

how does it hurt the one that doesn't have to rip open their skin just to sleep at night.

to be able to handle the painful memories.

to feel alive.

to handle living less than a block from the monster that ***** and took advantage of you at such a young age.

but who am I to play "woe is me"?

there are people with a hell of a lot less than me.

and yet I still feel the need to destroy myself.

How dare I?