Finger tips,
Gently touching my body,
From head to toe.
Confused in a blurr,
As I hold the blade to my heart,
Pause and move to my wrist.
A slit be made,
Red flowing from my open wound.
Man made cuts.
My own pain so good,
The sting a sensation,
Not a cry for help,
But a relief from my life.
Pull the sleeve down,
Only to complete my scars later.
As my life becomes tense,
Wounds are sunken deeper,
More slits upon my arm.
No matter how hard I try,
No way to stop,
This process has evolved.
Counselors think it'll be solved.
But all I say is **** it.
Talk about other things,
Not these scars.
They are just memories,
Between me and the blade,
And the memories are,
Forever Never Forgotten
