My wrists... like paper.
The knife... a pen.
The blood it savors.
The ink, it sends.
My skin is torn.
The paper is ripped.
Blade like a thorn.
The pen, it shifts.
Every scar has a story.
Each word with a meaning.
The blade looks hella gory.
This pen is deceiving.
My stories, to myths, the myths, they fade.
The scars, the paper, the pen, the blade.