Losing grip she holds to life,
She tells herself she won't let go,
Yet here she sits holding the knife,
Moving it ever so slow.
She sits beside her bed,
Knife pressed to skin,
Knees drawn to her head,
For she knows this is a sin.
Tears fall from her eyes,
They fall against the cuts,
Until the blood begin to dry,
She doesn't like this habbit, yet she's stuck in it's rut.
Her head falls back,
As sobs break the silence of the air,
Crys pour from her thoat, yet in volume they lack.
At the back of her eyelids she stairs.
Her hair falls around her,
A warm brown shall,
Not even the touch of a hand would make her stir,
As she listens to her creators call.
Along the slits she traces,
Time after time, line after line,
Forming a pattern like lace,
The paths, the cuts, so even, so fine.
pain shows through her face,
yet she drinks this pain, it is her feast,
Along her wrist, her body, the blood does trace,
She feels the least.
in the depth of the room,
She sits with nothing, no light,
Only the shine of the moon.
She knows sha can't stop, yet it feels so right.
The anger, the sorrow, flows through her, it all leaves,
The blood wipes it away, let's her feel numb,
A blanket of blood is weaved.
Her heart beats; a steady drum.
She looks down at her art,
When all the feelings are gone,
She stands, and slows her heart,
And waits for dawn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.