Questions
The dreaded question, she asked. “Why? Why do you do it?”
An answer with a lot of thought…..
It’s my way of knowing I’m alive.
It’s my way of turning emotional pain into something real, that I can see, that they can see.
It’s my way of releasing all the feelings built inside.
It’s my way of feeling happy, even for a moment.
It’s my way of forgetting what has happened.
It’s my temporary high.
Everyone deals with things differently, it is my coping mechanism.
Everyday stress leaves me running back to the knife.
All the things they say break this heart even more.
The reply I got was, “Ok…. Well I have to go….”
So much for caring hands to pick up the pieces.
So much for loving words to heal the gaping wounds.
All I have is a fresh arm waiting for the sharp edge.
One more scar to look at each day.
But I’m finished.
Run to the bathroom, turn on the hot water.
Get in the tub and slice away.
No more questions, no more answers.
Nothing left but a bleeding, broken-hearted girl.
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