Walking on Glass

I've picked needles from my skin
and i've tortured myself, cold
the knife is my escape path
my treasure, and my gold.

The look I give myself
through the mirror
tells me I am not okay
the cuts that sting along my body
get deeper and longer everyday.

The voices in my head
calm and soothe my being
but even if I stopped the cuts
who would I be freeing?

I run my razor over my arms
and the blood trickles everywhere
its almost such a crazy release
when I smell the blood that
fills the air.

I take a shaver to shave my legs
and I push it in to deep
upon my knees
even in the september air
the blood is like a breeze.

Caressing my arm with my nails
picking away the tears
and even though I cut myself
I still live on with fears.

Muffled within my pillow
started by the thoughts
remembering when I used to
inject my arms with shots.

Picking flowers on the praires
diving into the undetained sea
I'm still laying in the bathtub
with the shaver and bleeding knee.

Sitting in a shinning park
my feet, walking on soft grass
but its my imagination
for I'm still walking on broken glass.

But maybe I'll get better
maybe one day
I'll stop living a lie
and when I look into myself
I won't see a girl
who wants to die.