Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

Why don't the cuts in my skin revolt me the way they should, 
Instead they're beautiful to me,
The marking aren't carvings they're cravings,  I don't think I need saving, 
but maybe, just maybe, 
they'll end up degrading, 
It's not in my body it's all in my mind, 
I don't feel the blade, but I'm addicted to the line 
The red is so beautiful, this rush is so sweet,
These cuts must be quick, precise and quite deep,
Is this how I fucking meditate? Do I need more sleep? 
Well there's no point in drawing if the masterpiece doesn't bleed
The air around me stifles, I feel foggy, I think I'm numb 
The limbs in my body grow cold, my minds already done
I know what comes next, fight or flight, it's this spiral 
 But then I just end up hurting you, my pains viral 
I can't help it when I begin to panic late at night, 
I need to control it, I'm learning, I'm trying 
Don't know if it's anxiety, bipolar, or fucking PTSD
But hey at least I found someone who excepts me for me