When did my wrists start to look more like canvases  

And the blade more like a brush with which to paint  

Where the eraser is used to erase the mistakes of my life from my wrists 

And the lighter burns away my frustration and guilt  

When did I start to only feel content when my legs and core are covered in bruises  

And my fists turn into weapons bent on my own destruction  

Where my finger nails yearn to scratch into my flesh to finally release the tension  

And the needle's sting brings me back into reality  

Proving my existence with the pain that is so refreshing  

When did everything suddenly start to have a double meaning  

Tools to use in this sick path of vengeance  

Stripping me of innocence  

And calling for my life to be filled with a different kind of affliction  

When did pain stop being a warning sign and start looking more like a welcome one