I chuckle lightly and smile at my knife. One day, I would use this weapon to take my own life. Slowly, I jab it into my arm, dragging it down and causing self-harm. I have an addiction to inflicting pain, so I do it to myself since nothing will I gain except for the scars and blood on my skin. How could this ever be considered a sin?
The blood trickles slowly down, hardening then turning brown. I clean it up as if nothing happened. If my parents knew, they'd be deeply saddened. I act like I do normally and my friends don't notice anything wrong with me. I wear a jacket to cover the scratches. Some are still healing from last week's matches.
I feel the need to try other ways to cut myself, but to my dismay, I lost my only blade. I bought a better one for which I paid. The cuts on my arms grow more crowded. There are too many to be counted.
After slicing my arms, legs and feet, I look to Death who I'll soon greet. Just one stroke to end my life. I whisper a prayer and grab my knife. Admiring the dagger-like shank, I slide it against my neck and calmly thank anyone who didn't know of this. They are all oblivious.
Today I will complete my mission, a goal of which I am commissioned. You must know, this has to be, and now I'm dead because no one stopped me...
I drew a very eye-opening image on the back page in my notebook. This poem accompanies it.
