My friends don't care
They leave me here to bleed
I cry when I get home
And bleed myself to sleep

The darkness will sing,
"Honey don't cry,
Cut your wrists, close your eyes
And dream of broken butterflies"

I'm an artist with a masterpiece
My inspiration comes in rushed
So my wrist becomes my canvas
And my razor becomes my brush

I am not clean.
I am torn up nail beds.
I am bruised knuckles.
I am smoke curling around bleeding fingers.
I am tired eyes that lost their shine.
I am cracked lips forming disappointed smiles.
I am the loose tobacco at the bottom of the pack.
I am dried up old pens.
I am all the words I’ve left unsaid.
I am shaky knees.
I am the discomfort in your chest.
I am trying my best, I promise.
I am hastily scribbled words you’ll never read.
I am not the stability that I need.
I am not what anyone needs,
And it is not beautiful.