My stomach growls.
It makes me smile.
I'll stay away from food a while.
A slower death than knives and pills,
But starvation also kills.

I have a razor in my room
And thoughts that are all full of gloom.
I grab the razor
Make a fist
And start to decorate my wrist.

Am I even alive?
I can't really tell.
I'm still just trapped in my own little hell.

I know you're just trying to help, but your guilt trips just drive me further into my self destruction.

They say that I'm a good person. Either they're lying, or they don't know me at all.

He did that to me. It was his fault, not mine. So why is it that I'm angrier at myself than at him?

It's important to spell well using paper and pen, but it's more important when using razors and skin.

Is it bad if I laugh uncontrolably at the sight of my own blood?

It's better to cry from the eyes
Than from the veins
But only the blood
Can ease this pain