This isn’t exactly a poem, but something that I wrote to deal with me not cutting for now.

Self Made Morphine

Copyright, Nadir

You keep coming back — it’s all part of the self destructive cycle. The one that never ends. The need to destroy. To feel and not be numb anymore is greater than the need to not do anything at all.

The constant reminder that this is all endorphines is there when I look at the scars and cuts that were made not too long ago. But for a few seconds of happiness, I would make as many cuts as my body could take at once.

Yet it’s never been only to feel, but a punishment as well. Whenever I failed, when it wasn’t enough, you frowned and I knew I had to feel you on my skin again. But when things went well, you smiled — I knew I didn’t deserve it, and once again, you were on my skin.

Often, I wonder how to live without you. You’ve become my self destructive drug with addictive chemicals. It’s strange knowing the chemical is made in my own body. My own self made morphine.


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