Author's Note: Just because I wrote this poem does not mean I am encouraging you to cut yourself or harm yourself in any way. I wrote this poem simply to get an idea of why a cutter cuts and how it might lead to suicide. Thank you for reading it.
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The red drops fall on the ground,
the tears of the skin.
I hold the blade, the cutter, the
silver that's stained by my blood.
It is my hero, my paintbrush.
I carve beauty, my body is a
canvas. I cut the pain away,
my imperfections.
The spilt blood is my saving
grace, red is beauty.
Sometimes I want to cut away
until heartbeats fade.
Sometimes I just want to
commit suicide. Maybe next time,
my skin cries, I will die.
~