One

For me, the only substitute for all my inner pain,
Is a healthy does of outer pain, so I scratch my wrists again.

The cuts are getting deeper, they're hurting more and more
I really have to stop; I can't do this anymore.

I need to talk to someone, someone who really cares.
Someone to show my scars to, someone to tell my scares.

There's something in my mind that says 'You're not you without your scars.'
Something that says 'You'll never be completely out of the dark.'

The dark will always be a part of me, a piece of who I am.
But I'm truly trying to stop; if I try, I know I can.

My story's not yet finished. My poem will never be quite done.
Out of the millions who've stopped self-harming, I will soon be one.