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Description
I'd like to pretend
That this skin isn't mine
And that my skin was defined,
Soft, delicate, smooth,
Just like it once had been
Before I had started this...
Addiction is the word for it
I am a cutter,
But I'm not one for pity
I do not weep in the corner
And expect some person
To pick me up and take me away
No, I stick to the cut
I do this because it shows me
It shows me that I'm still alive
I'm not one of those 'emos'
I don't cut myself for the attention
I do this out of insecurity
I do this out of repressed denial
I do this because I can't see another way
I know that in the end it will scar me
And soon my skin will be destroyed
It will be the destructed version
Of what it used to be.
Call me an attention seeker, I dare you
But ask yourself; would you be me?
Could you really say that,
In my position, you wouldn't cut?
I don't make myself known
Therefore I cannot be an attention whore
How the fuck can I be when I'm ignored?
Yes, there are those fucked up
Cutters who slice their skin lightly
They do it within the public eye
And if not, they do it in secret
Only to blab and weep to everyone
The day after it happened
It's not important anymore
During the poem, I could have sliced
My skin at least thirty more times
Do you really fucking care?
Will you look at me in disgust?
(That is, if you ever see me.)
Cutting is a way of life for me
It's an obsession I cannot silence
I cut, therefore I am.