As the blade touches my skin,
I think of it all.
It glides, creating a line so thin,
I think of what I am called.
The crimson line grows,
As the memories come back.
Of when I had my hair in ribbons and bows,
And he never looked back.
The blood now dripping off my arm,
The memories fade into thought.
The questions are comming, oh darn,
Why couldn't I have fought?
A small puddle now forming,
My questions turn into thoughts of regret.
I could've stopped lying,
Now I can't forget.
I now dab my fresh cut,
And I shake my head.
I tell everyone not to think this, but,
I just wish to be dead.