To me cutting is a ditch
Something you can climb in
And guard yourself from what is outside
With a piercing, whining pitch
To me cutting is a room
Painted white, flawless
Where you sit on your own
And expect your time is soon
If the room isn't like that
Then it is scrawled upon
Chaos, graffitied with blood
Falling apart, swarming with rats
To me cutting is night
It waits around, and is a part of you
Feeling confined with only the sound of your breath
You can't tell the difference between wrong and right
To me cutting is hacking though the numbness