Scars

Running my hands over your rough skin,
Where the pain escaped from deep within,
Scarred into the most interesting of shapes,
That show of all your many escapes.

Many are white, some are pink, and a few are red,
You must have done those last night before bed,
I too know how the hurt fades away,
Alone in my house on a really bad day.

I feel slightly sick but proud of my wrists,
Because I can deal when I'm really pissed,
But I can see that your arms are only the start,
Of your travel down this deadly art.

Why am I the only person you show them to?
Is it because I'm as dark and depressed as you?
Probably more but I try to stay strong,
Even though it helps- Cutting is still wrong.

If I were you I could toss the blade away,
I am sure you are better then me any day,
However I see your blood more and more,
I know that flinch means that your wrists are sore.

Neither of us knows what sets the other off the hook,
Though I'm sure you could find out if you would carefully look,
It isn't easy to hide the love in my eye,
Seeing you like this makes my heart slowly die.