My Cure

Ouch, your words.
Their harshness burns my soul.
You hate me, it's obvious.
"Go die, emo whore."
The words slip through your lips.
Maybe I'll listen to you one day.

This night's the night.
I'm doing it this this time.
Once more I'll sneak away to my bathroom.
Sitting in the bathtub with a new razor.
I'll smile, knowing what's coming.
This should do the trick.

I roll up the sleeves of my hoodie.
Taking my blade, dragging it against my arm.
The release of blood is welcoming.
I retrace the wound.
Pressing harder, cutting deeper.
I watch the blood flow down my arm.

The edge I feel fades slowly.
I begin a new cut.
Slowly slicing deep into my skin.
It hurts, but I keep going.
I know this is worth it.

I'd do anything to silence it.
The flood of emotions I feel.
They trigger anxiety, I can't sleep.
I need to cut like I need to breath.
This is my neverending cure.
It'll fix all my problems.
At least for now.