It makes the blades of grass
that tickle your sole
feel like a thousand razors;
the raindrops, like prickly thorns.

And what you'll bleed isn't blood,
but bloodstained words
that will blemish
no other sky but yours.

My greatest source of pride would be
Deep lines on my forehead
As they would mean
I thought long and hard
About dreams deeper than
The cuts you gave me

I'm not trying to **** myself
My cuts are merely a cry for help**

You could read them like a journal if you were to look hard enough
This one from the time I cried until I could't cry anymore
That one from the time when sleep was oh so far away
And that one there, just a scar
That was my first cut, the one that began it all

Sometimes the only way to bury the emotional pain
Is by covering it with the physical pain

Like the bite of a dull kitchen knife against your stomach
Or the burn of a sharp one

The little beads of blood welling to the surface
Like the tears of my emotions
In physical form