First, Second, Third.

My heart anchors me to the bed,
too tired to get up.
My brain can't think straight;
everything's too hard.

I become a ghost in class,
unfocused.
Eyes glazed over,
and surely enough, someone notices.

Lying, saying I'm fine,
is something bad, I know.
What's even worse?
I hope people are deceived.

I used to be able to talk about this,
but now, it's like I can't even cry.
Patience can only last so long,
as I tell my tears we'll be home soon.

What if, lately, crying wasn't enough?
Not even close to satisfying?
I put my life at risk,
and pull out my spare blade.

First, second, third cut.
I'm amazed by my tolerance.
A little is not enough.
The screaming in my head stops.

My eyes dry, my mind calm.
I stash away my sharp friend,
hiding it where no one can find.
Walk out the door, pretend I'm fine.

I wasn't addicted; I could control myself.
I knew cutting was bad,
but I had no other choice.
Suicide was the only other option.

I'm up all night, tired.
I don't want to cut.
In fact, I hated it.
It was merely another method of relieving.

I don't love my silver friend,
but sometimes, I needed him badly.
Yet, I try not to think about him,
knowing he's trying to call out to me everyday.