It's not a whisper like it started,
with the tiny blade for the broken hearted.
The voices in my head that decide my choices,
the knife in my hand because of all the voices.
And they keep telling me to do it,
Take the razor up and down and end it.
They tell me to help them breathe,
for my nose and my mouth don't give them what they need.
"Through the wrists," the scream,
But I sit on the floor wishing it was a dream.
The voices in my head begin to yell,
trying to show me how to do the things that I'd never tell.
Then I assure myself it will be okay,
But I know in my heart it takes too much to stay.