Why do we do this to ourselves, I wonder,
Gazing as a scarlet stream flows down my legs.
Why do I feel the need to feel pain… to feel alive?
Aching skin from a punishment I cannot escape,
And an aversive pleasure and delight from my own hands.
Feeling such panic when the blood will not stop,
When it flows onto the floor, staining crimson.
What will I do when I’m 50, and I need to know that I exist;
Will I continue into my 60’s,
Looking at past scars to know that I’ve lived.
I hate myself for what I do, and I ask whichever god is there,
To forgive and forget, and save my heart from shattering like glass.
What will I do when I meet the guy of my dreams,
Dreading the unveiling of my broken body;
ashamed and hoping he can worship my soul instead.
What will I do if I am unloved and untouched,
an outcast, isolated from those people I want to be.
Why do we do this to ourselves?