You held my hand
Saw my wrists
Saw my scars
Saw my pain, written out
The paper, my skin
The pen, a blade
You asked me,
Why do you do that?
What are those from?
You were scared for me
I laughed
Looked away
I said,
Being clumsy
You'll see my body
See the rope
See the pills
See the pain, pushed too far
The breaking point
Then put to an end
You'll wonder
Why did she do that?
What was that for?
You'll be crying for me
But you'll see it
The note's answer
It will say,
Being clumsy
YOU ARE READING
Being Clumsy
PoetryNo, I do not cut. I am not suicidal. Don't worry. This is a poem I wrote after finding out about what some people do to themselves when they are depressed, not about anyone in particular.