The first is always the hardest. You have to push yourself into it. Cutting into innocence, cutting into your soul. At first it stings but soon it subsides and you crave the lingering feeling of control.



This one is a bit easier, you’re becoming acquainted with the demons as they take notice of what you've been pushed into. Watching crimson run down your thigh gives you a certain sense of exhilaration.



You’re getting more used to it and you begin to let go, this opens room for the monsters to take control.



You thought you had them tamed. You thought you could handle it. They over powered you and you blackout as if you’re possessed. Grief, Depression, Anxiety and all their offspring run rampant throughout your head, controlling every limb and every nerve.



You’re numb. There is no more pain. There is nothing. You watch blood hit the tiled floors, razor stained with your youth. There is this sickness in the pit of your stomach becuase you don’t have any control. It's like you’re being dragged into an abyss that leads to the land of nowhere.



The demons are relentless, battle scars now reopened, new ones forming. You’re a mess, though at the same time you have zero regrets. This is an escape, this is you coping. You don’t care what the others think. You don’t care that they know. You already know that they are disappointed in you, what's the difference of a few cuts.



The razor drops from your trembling hand as they give you back control. The pain stabs into you like an iron hot knife. You count each memory. Each time you hurt someone. Each time you made a fool of yourself. Tears drip off your chin whilst you cry, using toilet paper to wipe the blood from the floor. You turn up the music so they don’t hear you at 3:42 in the morning. You wash the streaks of wasted life off your leg and thigh, bandaging each mistake. You clean the blade you used, placing it back where no one would suspect it and you flush the evidence. You recall the burning in your leg before you leave the crime scene. You know you deserved this. You know it was what you had to do to make things right, even if it kills you.

This poem is about: 


Nicole Rothenberger



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