Why?

Why do you choose to sit there alone,
Holding the scissors, the knife, the razor blade
And dragging it across your skin.
In the dark, the bathroom, the music,
Alone.
Why choose relief that never lasts,
And in itself causes more pain?
To cower in the darkness and hide,
To choose a blade over a friend's hug,
To reject the people who love you,
So much,
Why?
And I hear your answer, as I always do:
"That's just the way I am,
These are just the things I do".
But I shake my head, to that
And say the words that you never hear
Because you've already turned your back
And walked away.
But I say on, to the cold white walls,
And the soft green carpet,
Letting them taste my words,
And drink up the bitterness I spill,
With each sob and sound and breathe.
This is the way you choose to be,
You choose to not confide,
And instead to bear the pain alone,
Buried in anger, and indignant rage,
Or inside the tears you fear to shed.
The same scenes playing,
Day after day.
You are walking in my shadow,
don't you see?
If the blade held the truth of life long relief,
Why would I fight everyday,
Against its pull?
Against its tug?
If bleeding away the pain can save you,
why does it birth so much regret?
Why?
165? When will there be enough?
Will it take a thousand?
Do you desire that much to "break my record"?
Or like me,
Will you stop counting then,
And let the wasted days tell you how long
The blade has sung its bleeding song,
Across your skin.
How many more lines must you make
Before you understand
That the scars will haunt you till the day you die?
Must you choose to walk my bitter path
All the way through?
Will you learn nothing from my road,
And everything it could teach you?
Will you not turn back, and choose,
Another way?
Not perfect, not whole, but healing,
Restoring the light once lost,
And learning to find hope and peace
That lasts and returns again and again.
If cutting worked, if it would save you,
Why would its memory bring me so much pain?
Why would I feel sick at each scar,
And tremble when I see yours.
Must you make every mistake of mine,
To know how wrong they are?
Won't you choose to learn from me,
Before it gets that far?
A promise, long ago, between two sisters. . .
Why?
What were you thinking that day,
When you turned your back on me
and instead, chose a blade?
Do you regret it as much as I?
Does it drift in and out of your dreams at night?
Why?
Here then, is a preview of the end,
The story of mine, three years ago.
A hospital bed, lying in sterile white sheets,
Stitches hold in place broken veins.
Do you want your own bed that badly,
Or will you choose to learn from mine?
Must you try to die first?
Would you be lucky enough for a second chance?
Or will you fall in line,
As another statistic of suicide?
Another sacrifice to that damn blade.
Why?