Sitting in my room alone,
Sitting looking at the phone...

Urges come over me,
The tears continue to flow...

The sound of the knife, calling my name,
it's too hard to ignore, I can't play this game...

The tears on my face,
The cuts on my wrist...

They ask me what I want for Christmas,
I tell them that I don't know yet...

In those rare moments when I feel fine,
You bring me down and my all healed wrist develops...

And with these final words I'll end my life,
I never thought this would be how I'd die...

My perfect life is all a lie,
A lie that no one sees through...

The knife is my best friend,
The friend I love to hate...

Words can be damaging,
Your words are killing me...

It's the comfort that I need,
It's the feelings I get watching myself bleed...

I wrote you a poem,
I wrote it with a blade...