Paper cuts may sting,
And birds may sing,
But blades take away,
That horrible pain.
Slicing thin lines of your pain
Watching crimson red ink flow
Down that pale thin skin,
Creating its own river,
That travels thin.
You don’t cry,
You don’t even cringe,
When you slice that pretty skin,
“It’s art" you say,
Creative in its own way.
Dull but bright,
Shining in the night,
Then those scars heal,
And once they heal,
You cry and plead.
It takes over your brain,
Begging for more,
And soon your body is covered,
In crimson red ink.
You lay still on the floor,
With nothing but a smile on your face,
And bloody pale skin.
A blade in your hand,
That took your pretty skin,
Into a morgue full of pretty pale skins.
