Cuts

I go in my room,
lock the door,
get the knife,
and sit right upon the floor.
The sight of the knife make chills go down my back,
I know it hurts, but I'm going to do it. It's a known fact.
I tease my wrists,
poke at the old slits,
and start to begin my trip.
I do it soft at first just to break the skin.
Then I let the knife make its own decisions.
It dives right in.
The skin rips off
Then I begin on the other arm. I Start soft.
I do the same thing
I sigh,
I cry,
I moan,
I groan...
All in pain..
Then I realize..
I feel exactly the same..

~What I mean by this story is that when I cut or anybody for that matter...We just do it for a quick fix. It doesn't do anything but leave marks...And it feels better for a second, but then you feel as if you are your same depressed self..Its bad, The poem is bad, but thats what I feel..Thanks vote and comment please. I need advice.~

© Rachel 2006