I want to mutilate myself.
To cut deep scars in me.
Over, and over again.
To feel the blood pour,
hot as it runs down me,
red, dark and thick.
I want pain, to suffer,
to hurt, to be hurt,
it makes me feel crazy.
And I suppose I am.
To want something,
like my own blood.
I think about crashing,
or somehow getting shot,
Anything to feel something.
Not to die, so much,
but to feel alive, to feel,
better than I do now.
That’s why I don’t crash,
why I don’t shoot myself,
I don’t really want to die.
But I don’t really want to live,
I don’t really feel alive.
I hurt so much inside.
Physical pain is better,
glorious relief in blood.
I mustn’t give in. But so hard.
A relief I’ve only found,
with a knife and flesh,
the craving is potent.
Poetry