A poem I wrote about why peole cut themselves. Taken from self experience.

Once I was a god. Worshiped. Revered. The huddled masses cast themselves at my feet, heads bowed and eyes wide. Save us, they begged. Spare us, they pleaded. And, fool that I was, I tried. Now I am nothing. Fallen. A bitter memory of an age long passed. A broken old fool too stubborn to die. This is my story. My rise, my fall. The pathetic mess, after. Read it. Don’t. I care little. My words are not for you.

Each chapter is a poem about a deadly sin. Pick your poison.