My Oh So Mutilated Self (As Red As The Rose)

My precious skin like buttermilk,
Curdled with blood red disgrace.
Is this worth destroying my only kin?
Was it all worth the look on her face?
A shard of mirror, a shred of hope.
That I can never deliver, cannot cope.
Beads of mercy, drops of pain,
Will the mirror curse me or drive me insane?
I think I could do a better job of it myself,
Just let this wall crumble that has become my mental health.
The blood shall surface, my skin will break,
Now the mirror has lost her face my soul is hers to take.
But have I achieved fuck all?
Have I ever even won?
The blood on the mirror crumbles the wall;
This oh so cleaver thing that I have done.