Cuts.

i drew a butterfly on my wrist,

in hopes that this feeling would no longer persist,

but things got bad and i started to cry,

so the butterfly on my wrist had to die.

once again i tried to set myself free,

but it seems my thoughts have stolen the key,

so this butterfly lived a short life,

killed with fear, and a very sharp knife.

-b.g

[lower case intended.]