Self 0:1 Demon

"It gets better, it does" she promised herself as she stared up at the sky.
The stars shone bright and clashed with the moon, and she felt herself starting to cry.
The cold of the night, the chill in the air, her hand ran down her arm,
coming to a halt, an intake of breath, there's self-inflicted harm.
The scars won't fade, they've claimed their place there upon her skin;
many nights there have been where she's cried and she's sighed and let the demons in.
The same, everyone said as they reassured, a shoulder there to lean,
but the words in her mind, insults and digs; horrible, hurtful, mean.
She's dying, she swears, more everyday. The fight is fleeing, it's gone.
The happiness vanished, the smile replaced, and it's been ever so long.
Her nails sank in, breaking surface, droplets of blood start to form,
her skin is shred, to pieces and shards, lacerated, cut and torn.
The battle was lost a number of years back but yet she is still here,
but she's fading away, she's losing the will, the light becoming near.

And how does it feel to feel so numb?
To feel nothing at all?
To feel so broken, so tired, so worn, head first into a brick wall.

Because remember how it felt to be truly happy?
No, of course she does not.
She's strained and she's stretched, her blood wearing thin, left is not a lot.

For towels and tissues and flannels and clothes, all soaked from disastrous nights;
sending her crazy, insane and plainly mad, it's taken away those rights.
The right to freedom, for peace of mind - being happy must be a sin.
Because there she sits, all alone and cold; for the demon, it is a win.