Scars On My Arm

A darkened room
with walls painted black
a low bed
with a sink and mirror at the back
so I sit
after firmly bolting the door
I lay gently
my things on the floor
a pair of scissors
and a razor blade
a bottle of vodka
and my tools of trade
I slowly stand up
with getting undressed
let it fall to the ground
exposing bare flesh
then with the blade
I score a line on my arm
the one thing that helps
is doing me harm
I dont press too hard
just enough to draw blood
I'm not suicidal
just misunderstood
the pain from inside
is getting too much
so I turn to destruction
to keep me in touch
hurting myself
helps give me control
which is sadly lacking
in life as a whole
I think I've changed
from who I used to be
the fear and pain
swallowed up the old me
I can't rationalize
that which I do
I know it's stupid
but I think it's true
that this is
the only way I can survive
anti-depressants can't keep me alive
I fear I've apalled you
well, dont be alarmed
I'll try to keep covered
the scars on my arm.