My Razorblade Romance

There's a pain
one that many mistake.

they believe you're wrong
if you think it's a
release.

hate me, judge me
it doesnt hurt me
and when it does i drive it away
and cry those red tears on my wrist.

there are one to many
cuts to count
some only i can see
some still bleed
call me crazy - it's my release.

there's this thing
called a razor.
mine's not the normal shape
mine i got out of an
exact-o knife blade
Two years ago and three days.

i remember that night so clearly
i don't know why i did it
i just put it to my thumb
and dragged hard and quick till i reached
my elbow.
I watched the blood fall and exhale in relief
all my pain had been driven away.

by one cut on my wrist i was free
my emotions gone, pain dead
but it didn't last
i was loveless, having a
razorblade romance,
i wanted something more from it
my release lasted only a minute
then i would have to cut again.

it became deeper and deeper
till it wasnt enough
and i found my mom's lighter
and lit my skin up.
i didn't like myself much.
I was tangled in a web of lies
hiding my skin, pretending
because I knew it was wrong
but I continued, I played the razorblade game.

This is the last verse of the poem, one last final blow
the burns and cuts didn't hurt enough, weren't final enough
i didn't believe I was suicidal , until the day before last
when I counted up all the reasons I had for death.
I counted my scars and burns - each one
holds a different memory, a different reason
to hate myself.
one hundred and forty two cuts, sixty-five burns.
add that all up and what do you get?
death.