"Just one more cut,"
I whisper to myself,
a lie I believe
for just a moment.
The blade presses down,
cold, sharp,
and for a second,
it's the only thing
that makes me feel anything.
The pain is real,
but it doesn't fix me.
It only leaves another mark,
another reminder
of how empty I am inside.
I tell myself it's the last time,
but I know it's not.
The numbness is too heavy,
the ache too loud,
and still,
I say,
"Just one more cut."
YOU ARE READING
Trapped in my own head
PoetryShe is an outcast. She finds it easier to express what she feels in the form of writing. Whether it is poems, letters or long texts. These are poems that she writes trying to describe how it feels to live with certain mental health issues, in a worl...
