My young friend, why do you cut yourself?
I found you bleeding, red-slashed and dazed in the corner of your room.
I thought I’d thrown away the glass, the metal, and the sharp razors you’re so fond of.
How was I to know you’d shatter your favorite CD and
Use it to let out your pain?
Do you feel better now?
Did it work?
Did you find ecstasy in the ripping of your flesh?
My young friend, why do you do this?
I hold a towel to your wound and rock with you on the floor.
Let me,
Let my love for you be the razor, slicing open your memories.
Let the ecstasy be found in releasing your sorrow in drops of words.
Words won’t drip like your blood but the pleasure will be just as sweet.
Do you feel better now?
Did it work?
Do you feel lighter, letting your heartache flow out in tears and screams?
My young friend, I don’t want to find you dead.
Next time I fear you will slash
your throat
and leave your beautiful arms untouched.
You move closer to your jugular each time you cry out.
Would you feel better then?
Would it work?
I can promise you there is not release in your death.
Only a young man ripped and bleeding left to die by his own trembling hand.
-Anonymous
