They tell me not to be mad at myself.
He tells me that.
He says anything's better than me being mad at myself.
He even told me that I'm so mad at him,
That I want to beat him up.
Then I said:
Am I mad at myself?
Am I mad at myself
Because my friends are so worried over me?
Or am I mad at myself
Because they told on me?
So here I sit,
Docked for six more sessions
With a woman I can already tell
That I don't like.
I think she has shifty eyes,
Was to nosey on the first day,
And that she brought up too many sad memories.
And that she's almost asking the impossible of me:
Not to cut until our next session:
Eleven days away.
And then I think.
Cutting is a part of me,
In some ways.
Its what I do;
Its what I know how to do.
One of my friends said that we cut so we can feel the pain inside of us.
But I corrected the non-cutter.
I don't cut so I can feel more pain;
I cut so I can forget the pain that I feel.
I cut to cut,
I don't cut to die.
I oft think:
What's the point of living?
But I don't think that I want to kill myself.
And I also think that I can't think of how to end this.