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Sad poems I told you I'd never do it again.
I told myself I was past it.
So, believe me, I was as surprised as any
To find a knife in my hand again.
A hundred times or more, I broke my promise.
Even now the marks have faded, I wonder,
Why did I do it?
I have no real lust for pain, no pleasure taken from torment.
My limits have been strained, stretched, but held.
There was no real reason to lay open my flesh to the blade,
None other than to watch the blood well up and seal over
Even the small adrenaline rush doesn't explain the desire
That even now begins to burn again
My skin crawls
I made a promise, broken by a hundred bleeding wounds.
Do I just want to be noticed?
Not really.
What is the reason?
My temper is short today, I have to restrain myself from yelling where I would normally laugh.
But that's just fatigue.
Why do I need this other release?
Release from what?
I cut, I bleed, I wonder.
