The room is eerie
No one else is around
Vanilla-scented candles give a source of light
A glint makes the hilt of the blade visible
Slowly the tip touches her creamy soft palms

She stares at the blade
It’s shiny and sharp, taunting her to try
While her wrists scream, “Don’t!”
See, the blade has won out before
The ridged crisscrossed pink scars are visible
But the wrists hold out hoping for no more

Hatred and pain fill her heart
She doesn’t want the blade to win
The pain consumes everything, though
The difficulty to fight it off is too great
But she wants her wrists to look pretty again

Eyes cloud with anger
Anger at herself for what she is doing
Anger at others for driving her to this
Outraged that she even let it bother her
Clear-minded and understanding her actions
But confused for a reason she can’t understand

Flashbacks of taunting and hatred
Remembrances of shoves and names
Days of feeling empty and worthless
Her mind cries in agony at all the suffering
Something had to give or she would collapse

It’s like a drug, addicting
Stupid and harmful, this she knows
But in her mind she’s getting some control
The feeling is good if only for a second
Followed by hours and days of regret
She wants to stop, she knows she has to

But this day won’t be different
The blade will win another day
The tears dripping down her cheek mirror the red on the blade
She wished one day it won’t be like this
The blade will be put away

But not today she knows
The hurt is too great