My wrist it itchy,
I itch it,
But it's not that kind of itch,
It's an itch that is impossible to just scratch away,
It's the urge to cut,
To cut deep into the wrist,
To see the blood,
To feel the feeling words can't explain,
Almost a tingling feeling,
But sharper.
The pain of the blade cutting deep would be insignificant,
Compared to the pain of going on,
The pain of seeing all those people,
The ones I love,
The ones that love me.
The one thought that goes on in my head,
As I grab the blade,
'What if?'
If I did end it,
What about the person that walks into my room,
The one that will see me lying there,
'Writhing a note is a horrible way to leave them,
Even thought I hate them most the time,
They are still my family.'
So I'm left there with,
A blade in my hand,
And one fucked up mind,
My thoughts have changed,
'If I don't end it now,
I will another day,
So why wait?'
I grab the blade put it to my wrist,
And cut…
There were twelve distinct deep cuts,
Some across the arm,
Others down.
The blood running down my arm,
The flow of blood getting heavier and heavier,
There must be about forty pity cuts,
It is too hard to tell with the blood so thick.
My thoughts are getting blurry,
I'm trying to stand up but feel weak,
Now my vision is fading, fading, faded,