Scars lace my body
Ghostly white memories of things I would rather forget
Making the emotional physical is not always productive
I am not quite living proof of that
Harsh red stinging lines remind me that I am not worth the help I have received
I do not try hard enough
Raised skin rubs against harsh cloth
A constant painful reminder of my biggest mistake
When will I go too far?
Will I be able to stop before I reach that point?
Sticky liquid life flows freely from my marked body
When will it be enough?
Just enough to feel has become too much
Anything to feel alive
Anything to feel real
More marks are made each day
Like entries in a diary
A story written upon my body
The ending comes with two swift lines upon my wrists
How many more pages till I’m through?
You always could read me like an open book, so can you answer me that?