Take your left wrist. Can you feel your pulse? Count the beats.
Now imagine that for every beat, you feel a need. A hunger. A drive.
You struggle, you strain, and yet this compulsion overtakes you.
You are powerless against yourself.

You take that tiny piece of metal and you have no choice.
You can't resist. It's involuntary. In fact, it's against your will.
You are weak. You are worthless. And you destroy yourself,
red line by red line.

You hide. You wear long sleeves. You put on a band-aid.
You say you don't know what happened. They never seem to notice.
That's alright. You don't deserve to be noticed.
You don't deserve to be saved.

Life has become a constant battle within your mind.
You want the pain to end. You want people to stop worrying.
So you take matters into your own hands.
You swallow. You hope for the end.

But you apparently didn't know how to commit suicide properly.
And maybe that's a good thing. Perhaps you are glad you couldn't do it.
You get a second chance. You try harder. You fight back.
The compulsion does not go away.

It still hasn't, in two years.

And yet, living with it is better than not living at all.
You learn to control the pain. You know when it's coming.
You are prepared. You resist. You sometimes fail.
Another red line.

But most of the time, you succeed. You last another day.
The compulsion is still there, which makes you feel weak.
But you are strong. You are resisting. You may not be proud of yourself.
But there is pride in these words:
I am strong. I am fighting it. I am fixing myself.