I saw it coming long ago.
Feeling the tension building up,
The urge to stick it in and not let go.
Not knowing how to stop.

I know exactly why I am doing this,
As soon as I push the blade into the skin,
I feel the pressure fading away.
A lovely feeling of comfort setting in.

As I lay down, watching the red,
I know I had to do this.
But the longer I lay there on my bed,
The more I feel stupid for being this.

Being this girl I was 15 years ago.
The girl with the pentagrammed arm.
The good feeling of that blood flow,
Makes room for that feeling of regret.

As I look at my arm, scratches allover,
I feel so silly, knowing everyone will see,
I hate this post hurt hangover,
This is not who I wish to be.

They limit me to my scars,
Or my fresh wounds to be pricize,
May be it is me limiting myself,
As I am the one paying the price.

Realising this, still looking at my arm,
Feeling so stupid, so much regret,
I still hold the blade in my hand,
Wanting to cut again, yet trying to forget.

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