I like to cut myself.
It’s fucked up, I know,
but I get a perverse pleasure from it.
It started with emotional pain.
A fire threatened my town.
My house.
My life.
A promotion denied,
whilst I sat in a camp,
full of evacuees.
The knife found me.
It wasn’t the first time,
but it was the most vicious.
How it carried on.
I can barely remember.
When I cut, I also forget.
Forget the pain.
Forget suffering.
I like watching the blood come out of me.
Red and fresh.
The feel as it runs down my leg.
The stinging sensation afterwards.
Does this make me psychotic?
I take anti psychotics.
But I am not delusional.
Just in pain.
A strange emotional mess.
Where I cannot cry,
but I happily bleed.
This is however, no solution.
So I must not do it.
Yet I desire it so intensely.
What am I to do?
My natural state is agony.
I must find a way to alter it.
Therapy.
Lots.
And lots.
Of therapy.
Enough to stop cutting.
For the most part.
The occasional slip.
Once I was caught.
It made a right mess.
But still, I crave it.
I pray to God and ask, what am I to do,
with this demon that I love?
He remains silent.
I must find peace.
Peace with myself.
Peace with the world.
I intend to find a way,
to resist this beast.
Even if I have to,
over and over again.
So help me,
I will.
Poetry
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Stay strong brother