I remember,
When I was eight.
I held a silver blade over my pale wrist.
But it told me to stop,
And so I slipped it away.
I remember,
When I was fourteen.
I brought out that same blade,
Along with two others.
Silver, black, blue.
Yet again,
They told me to forget.
Regretfully,
I hid them in the drawer of my wooden desk.
I remember,
When I was eighteen.
Ready to end everything,
I brought out all five of them.
Silver, black, blue, white, green.
For all my deadly sins,
I deserved them.
Tears welled but were never shed.
My guardians,
They told me to rise up,
To continue to make memories.

Still I have the urge
To take the knife up
And do stupid things
Like I used to before

But no, I don't do it
Instead I drown myself
In loud music and tears
With literally no end

Am I becoming mad?
I don't know anymore
But this seems like
A fine way to suffer

The word feels foreign on my tongue
Actions make me run and hide
As if no one could ever love someone
As hideous and ***** as me
That's what you want me to believe
That no one will ever love me for the way I am.

So you sit there and whisper in my ear
It's okay, he can touch you like that, this isn't wrong
But it is
He should treat me better.

For a while,
I told myself that I would figure you out
I would understand why you are the way that you are
I would fix you
But it was never that simple
Sometimes, people hurt people just to hurt them
As if they find pleasure in it
You loved to watch me squirm under your knife.

I always thought you loved me
But now the fog has cleared
And I see that it was lust.

I have all my fingers,
The knife goes chop, chop, chop.

There's nothing poetic about the life I lead,
With feet like lead I tread and
Tread through halls of dread.

If I hit my fingers
My fingers will come off.

I trod and trod and trod,
Life is monotony and
The grind is ******.

If I hit my fingers
The blood will soon come out.

The world keeps whipping,
There is no relief and
Man is the thief.

But all the same we play this game,
That's what it's all about.

The priest keeps preaching,
The room spins, spins, spins and
I writhe in ecstasy with my sins.

You may not use a pen,
The only way is with a knife when
Danger is your friend.

Step one starts with forgetting/

you begin by tearing
yourself from the skin they took home in,
disconnecting your arms from their seams,
eating their hearts
and hoping that they forget you,
too

Step two means burning all
ties,
dissolving each memory like the pills
your mother took at breakfast,
how could you have let this happen?

so you pull
their
veins from yours and
untangle what they gave you,
choke down a penny
and hope
that they don't think of
you

Step three is the
detox,
cut yourself open and scrub yourself
shiny:::
unchain your wrists from that dinner table
and hope that his nightlight doesn't bleed
through
that
doorway,

orange was never a pretty color
anyway

Step four is the hardest,
.
when you take a knife to your palm,
and make slits down to your wrist,

when you ignore the beck and call
of memories you forgot you had,
people you realize never cared,
so you take
a drink for those you know you've
long forgotten,

and come clean
to three different people, all the
same and hope the next girl
doesn't know step one....

it never seemed to hurt when you
played it all out in your head.

I opened them up just slightly, then in haste I departed
there creases and all that was inside spilt upon the floor.
I learnt from my first mistake, this wasn't the first time I had
opened one up. But the realization over took my needing and
what was within expelled so much held within,
mistaking what was and now spilt on the surroundings.

The next time I emptied them gently in to the tub,
I was slightly strange but I preferred to cut two open then
miss them in essence, I was hungry for what they had to give
and once I had my fill I discarded then to the side lingering
in a mess of what once was and what was partly tasted
sodden in the essence I had partaken to envelope them both in.

A few days later I had a taste for something different,
so I delved my knife into it. So seductive to watch
it break upon the skin, I scraped upon it and I licked
the knife like it was a lolly pop weeping essence on
my tongue. Then I spread it on the other then I lacerated
cutting it with a blunt knife, lusting the feel on my palm.

Do you know how long it takes to cut deep with a blunt
instrument. Time, and I adored the pleasure of the misery that
I felt when I finally ****** through from front to aft. I put the
blade down, and that piece that had became singular was now
digested within myself and it was salty going down. I ******
cereal every morning the aroma when descending exquisite.