Press it down against the skin,
just enough to make a crease;
sharp side down.

Pull it back
smooth and perfect,
exchange this pain
for one that's eloquent,
warm, and sharp around the edges.

Tracing the blood inside my veins-
with red lines
carved across my wrist.
Another scar,
flowing red and honest.

With each stroke
I etch this strange relief,
Admiring the red and silver swirls
that make the masterpiece,
and drown the sorrow
that brought steel and flesh together
into this unholy union.

The sweet taste of torture,
sharp side down.

To crave,
Wails of agony, voices soaked in terror?
Call after call, message after message.
Care, love, sympathy?
Succor, surveillance, support?
Tear after tear, hands shaking and grasping?
Pity, solace, warmth?

To receive,
Levigating guilt, being disintegrated.
Evanescensing from reality.
Blood clotting and drying.
Those who are paid to give care,
Who seem as though sympathy;
Hadn't glazed over their eyes in decades.
A room so cold and sterile,
That not even the warmth of my breath
Could stop my bones from shivering under my skin.
Desolating abandonment,
Hums of fluorescent lights,
In chorus with sobs of despondency

It isn't what I wanted.
But it is what I deserved.

Forgive me, I tried,
to fight the demons inside,
but I have to admit,
to it I did submit,
it becomes an addiction,
forcing me into submission,

Forgive me, I need,
to learn how to plead,
for it to leave me alone,
after all that it's shown,
I don't want to live like this,
but it's something I know I'll miss,

Forgive me, for I can't explain,
why I self inflict such pain,
or why I can't put down the blade,
and disappear in the shade,
but it's my way to cope,
at times when I've lost all hope,

Forgive me, I can't,
ignore the voices that chant,
telling me that I'm weak,
and other nastiness they speak,
demanding that I cut,
and forever be in this rut,

Forgive me, but they win,
I can't fight all this pain from within,
I need to feel the blood run,
the devil thinks it's fun,
that my final string has snapped,
and in this cycle I'm forever trapped

every single line on my body holds a memory
i’m usually embarrassed
the weird stares i get or the occasional questions from elders who don’t understand
sometimes people will even joke about it
or this one time a girl from my class told everyone i do it for attention
and at one point it might have been for attention, because i wanted someone to notice, to save me from my anguish
i always did have this obsession of being able to turn my mental pain into visible hurt
now i simply try to put it into words
and so when the sun comes out and the heat strokes start i try to cover them up
but at one point it got too hard to hide
and even though i’m better now, i’ll always be marked for life
i’m branded by my nightmares
but the monstrous marks tell a story
i’m alive and i’m full of memories
and even though most are bad, there’s a reason i’m here to show them

Writing on paper is like cutting skin,
the pen and its ink are the blade and blood,
the paper...that's you, your skin.
The paper is soft and delicate, just like skin
The pen is sharp and aggressive, just like the blade
The ink, well that's the blood that pours out with each cut

But can you fix it?
Can you fix the paper?
Can you fix your skin?
The answer is no, you really can't

The paper can't really be fixed or healed
Just like your skin
Once you make that cut there's not much that can be done

It'll just become a scar, a permanent memory
But back to the pen and ink,
if you use the pen too much it'll run out of ink,
if you cut yourself then...Oh...you know what happens