The First Cut Was The Hardest Poem by Rosalita Fern

That First Cut Was the Hardest,

As the Knife met my thigh.

I dont remember that first cut, or the second.

Or even any after that.

What I know is that when it happens,

When the sharpe knife, meets and cuts the raw skin,

All I feel is a release

A Release from a lifetime of presures.

I know not to cut so deep.

I know where not to cut.

I know i shouldnt cut at all.

The release of pressure is addictive like a drug.

The Blood releases all trials and tribulations.

Freedom

Release.



I apologise to any who are offended by this, i did delet but rewrote as it is important for me to let other self harmers know that we arent alone. I know people like poems about birds etc feel free to view my other poems i have those too, but i have a darker side of everything and i write to overcome it.

Thanks