I've never been a cutter.
I've never had the guts.
I have a friend who cuts,
and in some ways,
I feel sorry for her;
in others—
I envy her.

I don't have the guts to do what she does.
Part of me is glad I don't;
another part? Not so much.

I don't have the guts to take
a blade to my skin,
or a gun to my head,
or a rope to my neck.

I suppose it's a good thing, though—
after all, someone has to look strong.