Over and over again I cry,
and the repetition is getting old.
You’re sorry, you hurt yourself, you love me.
Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.
This pain cannot go on forever,
so just kill me faster.
We both know how this will end,
so why not just finish it sooner?
I trace the half-healed cut that trails the length of my arm,
a twisted memoir of what my life has become.
I enjoy the rush of adrenaline that courses through me as I watch the silver tip etch it’s path,
leaving behind an open slit of vermilion.
They all tell me it’s not the right way to deal with suffering,
but what would they know?
Each time I relish the fact that I have such an effective outlet,
despite what anyone tells me.
And the ritual continues…