Tear soaked eyes

Trembling hands

Slit wrists

Bloddy razors

My night

The dark deep abyss that is my mind

The voices keep me awake at night

They fight with one antoher

Begging me to stay up with their fued

So as they decide to bring back memories of all kinds

For every word they seem to speak come 10 more trembling tears

For every minute they scream and fight come another section of soaked pillow

For every minute of crying comes a new slit within my wrist

The deeper and deeper they go to follow my abyss

Blood shot eyes

Pink cheeks

Blod dripping wrists

and blody towels

This is my night

The confusion and anger

The sadness and despair

I'm tied down, unable to escape from the huge steal chains

They call it relapse

Going a month without the deep and burdend marks

But is it relapse if your knuckles are bloody from the things you've punched?

Or the bruises you didnt intend to inflict on your fragile and tender skin?

Or the smoke inhailed by the stress and depressed teen?

Or maybe the alcohol downed because she was alone and alcohol was her only friend?

Is it really relapse?

People saying being happy is a choice

How am i going to choose to be happy when it feels as if I am buried under a collapased building

When trying to get up in the morings the reasons to stay in bed out number the reasons to get out

And while looking at pill bottles, the voices try and ease me in

To end the pain I inflict to others

The reasons to down the pills and end my life become too strong

So I look to my blades

And the next day I'm alone again fighting the voices from within

Wearing fake smile and hopeful laughs