Sitting there holding the scissors,
Weapon of choice,
And yet I haven’t done anything
Because I promised you I wouldn’t.
And I haven’t, not yet,
But I want to…
I won’t if I can help it,
I won’t break my promises.
It’s like the blackness is enveloping me,
Crawling over my skin
As I run the blades over my arms,
But not hurting myself.
It’s a torment.
I’m just winding myself up.
I’m not going to cut again,
I don’t have the bottle to…
Not when I promised you I wouldn’t.
I can’t even pin down what’s wrong,
I have tacks and a notice board;
But nothing sensible to put on it.
