There are days,

When I can't help but look at what I have done to my own body.

The scars. The marks.

I did that to myself.

That’s the worst of it all—

I am the monster of which I'm so desperately afraid of.

The face of evil is constantly living inside me.

 

Cut after consuming cut,

Scratch after searing scratch,

Burn after blistering burn,

Thought after treacherous thought,

Soon to become scar after shameful scar.

Forever reminding me of who I was—

Who I will be for eternity.

 

Its constantly there:

The compulsion, the desire--

For a genuine feeling I can finally control.

Being the cause of my own bloodletting somehow brings me pure euphoria.

A feeling incapable of being recreated.

An addiction never to be completely cured.

 

No matter, I am my own monster;

I am my own savior all the same.

The very blade used to create my own bloodbath, was also used in creating strength.

For the cuts are now truly scars,

The tears may return,

 but replaced with something new.

Not yet found but soon to be true,

Still careful not to forget who I once was;

I will soon find the me that is meant to be.

 

Monster. Savior. All the same.

It will be me.