While I write you this note,
My blood seems to pour,
My tears smudge make-up,
And then drop to the floor.
While I write you this note,
I fight off the urge,
To cut and to hurt,
But the need starts to surge.
While I write you this note,
Their words start to sting,
I want to feel blood,
And the relief it will bring.
While I write you this note,
The urge makes me itch;
Make one final cut,
That can not be stitched.
While I write you this note;
My final goodbye,
I pick up my knife,
And wish life to fly.