slit wrists – a poem

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm


wipe the blade clean,
wipe it clean
before someone sees

keep it back,
back at your dad's desk
near the razor set

you felt nothing,
the cut was a desperate attempt
a sad, sad attempt
to feel something,

anything,
anything...
apart numbness

here you go,
feeding the monster
again

cutting deep,
deep enough to bleed,
to hurt

but not put an end to,
not end,
no, not yet.
why this?
there are a 100 different ways
to release

the energy you feel
stuck in,
suck it

tear a page,
ramble & rant,
burn it

jog for miles,
cough blood,
breathe out hurt

run your fingers,
find yourself,
wipe what's left

count the lines,
drain the wine,
count the scars,
drop the knife

stitches heal,
bleeding stops,
continue... 

***

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