Walk up the stairs, shut the door
Throw your jumper, on the floor,
Go to your hiding place and find,
The pieces of metal which help you unwind,

Grab your tissues, a wet flannel and it,
On the bed, exhausted, you sit,
Sighing, dying, sick of trying,
You beg and beg but you’re not crying.

Drag the blade across your arm,
‘Come on, harder, it’ll do you no harm’
Looking down, you see the blood,
In a rush, all of your feelings flood,

Out of the hole you’ve left in your skin,
Where the perfect complexion had once been,
Revealing a bright red river cascading down,
All those feelings; you’re going to drown.

Sighing now you lift your head,
‘Nothing’s good enough’ they all said,
Bleeding, pleading, every night in your mind,
But nothing’s spoken, everything confined,

Staring down at your canvas of art,
Blood continues to pump from your heart,
Trickling, crawling, out from your skin,
You feel no better now, you just can’t win.

Over your wounds you wrap the tissue,
Suddenly thinking, no-one would miss you,
Taking the tissue off once more,
You rip harder, you want to make the blood pour,

Deeper and deeper you try to go,
‘Come on’ it said ‘You’re going too slow!’
Stressed, depressed, you try and fight it off,
When you give in and tear, you see the tissues within.

‘Shit’ you think, as the blood comes to the surface,
Dabbing and padding, the cut, you’re nervous,
That the blood will continue to pour and not clot,
And the feelings that pour out will fester and rot.

 Copyright, October 6th 2012