Dancing Around Self Harm

A sick drop.
A dull thud.
Blood running like rivers down my wrists.
That blood drips into scales.
Scales that weigh the situation.
Was it worth it?
Or not.
It doesn't matter because you'll always have these scars.
The urges to create more.
The means to line your paper body with more red dashes.
Anger.
Frustration.
Sadness.
Greif.
Guilt.
Web pages books soft spoken counselors...
They all have their theorys why you want to
Why you have to add every note down wi the red ink on your arm.
But they never seem to hit the nail on the head.
The treatments never seem to fit the puzzle.
And in the end you wind up all alone, dead and afraid to do anything more then curl up and wait to die.