The knife is in my hand,
And I rest it against my forearm.
Must be careful, must be precise.
Never let the wounds show.
But I must leave them there to know
That they existed.
Push the point into my skin.
The delicious pain burns up the nerves
Into my mind.
And I find that this is easier to deal with
Than the agony in my heart.
It's more visible too.
Pulling it now across my arm
And up my elbow. Watch as
The blood wells up in the cut, flows
Down the skin, drips onto the floor.
Proof of the injury.
If only the holes in my heart could
Be seen so easily.
There now. Now the searing eases
In time for the next cutting.
If only the wounds in our hearts could be seen like the cuts on our skins.
There are reasons I'm taking medication. They're called "other people." - Me, displaying my anti-social tendancies