It's disheartening that you're sharpening all your knives to break your skin. To gouge out deeper, to cleave disaster, to carve out canyons with your hands.

And your heart's pacing and your mind's racing while you're retracing every scar with a pen. What a nervous itch that you hope to quit. The knives you hope to ditch weigh on your mind again.

You know these epidermal lies, they're just artificial highs just to help you get by but it's not the same as finding a new will to live and finding one more hope to give in every single cut you did just to keep you sane

These medications that you're taking: they're not keeping you from breaking. They're just filling you with anger, a bitterness and a resentment

And it's not shocking that your pill popping has got your heart stopping. You feel like dying once again. What a nervous itch that you hope to quit. The pills you hope to ditch weigh on your mind again.

Your decisions left incisions. But let's not talk about it. Let's just forget about it