Cutting Poem by Desiree Whitamore

The razor blade is sharp, but oh, it feels so good. The blood, the pain, not stopping if we could. the shiny metal is now colored with red, we hear what you are saying, but can't remember what you've said. we're addicted to the pain, and feeling as if nothing's there. we have to keep it secret, we know that you won't care.
but what can you really do? yell at us for being scared? How can you help? knock us down the stairs. maybe if we're gone, the world will be a better place, its the little things to sacrifice, things we're too afraid to change.
You say your here for our time of need, but to make us stop? in that we won't succeed. It's the high we get, from the feeling that no one cares, the stress from all your talks, meetings without us there. the interventions scary, now we know it hurts us worse. the thought we really could die, it makes us want to work. you've turned into an eagle, watching us like a hawk, waiting for that moment, we'd actually want to talk.
now that we've stopped its strange, you're really there for us. our hearts open up, and oh what a rush. we promise to get better, go back to our normal self. we stand up, take a bow, proud that we had help. we just want you to know, we love you too. anything. we're here, in whatever mood. you helped us save the life we almost lost. and now we're getting better,
paying without a cost.