Sc*rs

I've got scars, more scars than people who care. And they're rough, rough against my finger when I run it along my arm, right down to my wrists. I am lost. I am here. I am found. But I am lost. And I am locked. Forever locked in a dark room with the voices shouting that there's no way out. There's no way out 'til I am dead. I'm on the run. I am running and running 'til I've lost my head. And I lose it. I lose it. I lose my head And then my fingers. I can't feel anything. I lose my sight. I can't see anything. I can't feel. I can't see. I can't see the people around me who care. Who say I will be okay. And I will live. Because I will live. You see, what my fingers do feel? They feel those scars. And you know these scars are? They're from the blade that I keep on my bedside table that I stare at every night. Forcing myself to to not do it. To not cut. Don't cut. But those voices. Those damn voices. You know what they say? Do it. You deserve this. You don't deserve him. You deserve this. You must. You should.

For I am weak. I have not the strength to cut deeper than how my fingers will let me. But one day I will be strong. And there will be no voices. No pain