Sitting in the dark,
reflecting on my actions,
wondering why I can’t seem to stop this ritual,
why each time the sharp point penetrates my skin,
I feel an unbelievable sense of release.
Old scars are torn open,
deluging my arm with a fresh wave of crimson torridity.
I am almost content,
the blade slowing its uneven path across my skin,
but no, a new array of emotions is bursting forth,
unable to be destroyed by only mental willpower.

Fierce rage, exploding anger, torturing confusion,
slashing once, twice, three times into my skin,
pale and thin from self-inflicted starvation.
Each gash exudes copious amounts of my diminishing life,
abating my existence to a nearly lifeless state.
This ritual itself shows my weak, frail mind,
unable to deal with internal pain.
As long as this agony remains,
as long as my mind remains fragile,
it continues.