The Blade

I lock myself inside my room,
Where my private shadows loom.
I lock myself inside my mind,
The feeling comes. Again, its time.

I hide my skin, all but my arm
The canvas painted on by harm
I stare and stare, prepare myself
Held to my face, away a mere hairbreadth

I reach for the bloodstained blade
And with its click, I'm unafraid
Admiring the cold, sharp steel,
The Saviour from the pain I feel

I listen now to my own heart
And meditate before i start,
Are the scars and blood enough
To take me from the endless rough?

Position knife, cold edge to skin
Grip the handle, commit the sin
But for a second, i delay
Of the inevitable self-flay

Swipe the blade, clean and quick
Blood starts to flow, red and slick
TEAR skin with the jagged edge
Of the knife to which i pledge

I stare at the initial wound
The blood and skin i have just pruned
I lift the blade and cut again
And cut again, and cut again.

Deed now done, i wrap my arm,
I do not wish for death, just harm
I hide my scabs and scars with sleeves
Emotions fall as autumn leaves.

Addicted, dependent, both are true.
But i cant stop, for if i do,
I fear of what may happen if
I tip over the emotional cliff

Some have whiskey, some cigars
I have tears and cuts and scars
Some have cigarettes and dope
My knife... the thing that helps me cope