This is something I wrote a long time ago when cutting myself became a serious problem for me.
The date on this is September 4, 2014.
Another night alone,
locked away in my room,
inside myself I feel it,
internal war resumes.
I reach inside my drawer,
for a razor meant to groom,
a crack of plastic sets them free,
ready for me to use.
I like to watch the blade,
and the light that dances on it.
Slide my finger on the edge,
my blood could write a sonnet.
Some may only think,
this is self-inflicted pain,
on my arms I feel pure pleasure,
my stress falls down like rain.
If only I could fight,
through the torment and the pain,
I consider myself lucky,
to have lived until this day.
You may think I’m depressed,
to this assumption I’m impressed.
But I’m different from the rest
I feel this in my breast
Now I lay me down to sleep
when the blood runs red I cut too deep
It is the secret I'll always keep
Into the darkness, my eyes do sweep.