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I sit apon the bed,
The metal in my hand.
The music is my painkiller,
Just like when I began.
I poise the blade against the warm
Sensation of my skin.
I make a short, yet cleanly made
Cut, so small, so thin.
Beads of crimson slowly leak
From the tiny, precise gash.
I stare at it, then think a bit,
Then from my mouth escapes a laugh!
What was it for this time?
It's strange that you may ask.
Self-discipline is maybe why,
But there are reasons I should add.
Sometimes I feel let down
Other times, I'm sad.
It happens when I'm happy
Just like when I am mad.
And sometimes, almost always,
A feeling tells me to.
Especially when I'm feeling down
And writing just won't do.
The little cuts grow bigger
With each slice of the blade.
Feel guilt or shame? Not yet-
I'm not the slightest bit dismayed.
I cut away and watch me bleed
'Til no more cuts will fit.
I could explain this all to you,
But you just don't get it.