How much do I let this addiction feed,
By making my wrists bleed,
It's not that I purposefully do this,
Yet when my thoughts whip and hiss,
This is the relief I turn to like a soft kiss,
Somehow I can no longer cry,
Tears do not fall anymore even when I try,
When I have cried I've been soothed by the salty taste,
Which rolls down my face what a waste,
It began as a one time solution,
Until suddenly my wrist became the full time site of execution,
It allows me to breathe clearly for a while,
Yet later the red marks make me revile,
However when temptation hits and I can't resist,
I find my hidden tool and reveal my wrist,
I drag it across in one straight line,
It does not bleed so I repeat as to refine,
And the blood slowly draws out like red wine,
For once I can let go of all emotion,
I scratch a second cut in one quick sharp motion,
For the slight pain it causes on my skin,
Helps to take the bearing of the pain within,
My mind and heart which slow their spin,
It also gives me a sense of control,
How many? How deep? Direction? It relieves my soul,
Which is normally spiralling in every way,
Yet this technique manages to quieten my thoughts away,
Five cascade down my wrist now,
How many more should I allow,
Only a few more I think,
Because otherwise I would keep going until I have used up all the ink,
I can no longer count how many wounds I've littered,
They're bleeding, screaming, embittered,
Yet I sigh carelessly for it is only skin,
And so for one last time I sink the blade in,
Knowing that the guilt will soon come crashing in because I let this addiction win.
YOU ARE READING
Until these wounds heal
PoetryPoetry which covers topics of: Anxiety, depression, sh, sadness, love, relationships, friendships. If you want to read a specific topic just ask me and I can recommend the poems I think would suit you best. Poetry, because I'm convinced that it's t...
