Over and over again.

I'm never good enough so who cares if I cut?

Everyday I cut and hope one day it'll kill me.

Slicing my skin with that sharp blade makes me feel alive.

My mom told me that I'll hardly be able to get a good job when I am older with all my scars.
Getting a good job is the least of my worries right now.

The razor blades call me, they scream my name over and over again.
They beckon me to come, use them, just one more time.
To let the blood flow, to paint a picture on my skin that will last forever.
They scream at me to let the warm blood cover them.
I bite my lip and cling onto something, hoping, wishing to get away from the addiction that
took over my life!