Running scissor's blades across my wrists,
So that they are striped a million shades of red-white-pink,
Occasionally yielding a ruby, needle-thin stream of blood,
It flows and rolls in beads of black-red, like crimson tear-tracks,
The void between two bleeding veins grows deeper with every knife-stroke.
Disconnected daydreams, offbeat, coinciding with semi-lucid nightmares,
Sometimes there's guilt that feels like electric shocks, bullet-wounds,
But mostly just the same blank whiteness, a world of medicated mist,
Crimson rain seeeping through in the darkest hours.
Everyone mentally implores that I willl eventually cut deep enough,
Goddamn them all to the coldest chamber of a hell I don't believe in,
They inflict their irksome advice upon me, I shut it all out, I don't really care,
Don't tell me that I shouldn't give up on myself and everyone else that I knew,
You were always the one to pray to a false god for my death.
If I survive, if I save me from myself,
Let it be known that it was just to spite YOU