Five more cuts.
They won't show, and they will fade.
It's nothing. It's nothing.
It makes me feel normal.
I need punishment for every time I mess up.
Don't worry I won't die.
"I wish she would keep better track of things" one more cut.
"She is a freak" two more cuts.
"You don't care about anything do you?!" three cuts.
Some say it hurt.
Some say it's nothing.
Sure I thought I could talk to her about it, but now my only true friend is drifting.
She knew every thing about me, cutting, crying, depression, and so on. But, as I see her go.
Now we just say simple Hello's.
It's time she stopped dealing with me.
She has her own problems.
So what's five more cuts?
It just adds to the many.
Though there be fear with the cutting.
After this feeling of release, there comes fear.
'What if I can't stop?'
'What if they find out?'
'What if I kill myself?'
My wrist is throbbing now.
It wants the knife, it wants the blood.
I need help.
It's not the cat anymore.
It never was.
The voices tell me not to stop.
I am going insane.
But I can't say this to you.
Please get me help.
She isn't enough.
The 'talking' you call it.
I can just stab myself with a pencil
Or break open a light bulb.
I want death to myself.
I want end.
It's all my mind is caught on.
Although I know your trying.
I need more help.
I've misplaced my razor, and I need something sharp.
Addicted to cutting.
I can inflict pain in ways that won't show.
I thought it was over.
I thought it was gone.
It's not stopping.
It's never stopping.