Scars On My Arm

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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.