My Own Personal Hell

I have been
through hell and back,
with nothing to show for it,
but these fading scars
running along my arm.

I think back to a time,
when if I saw the knife
I felt the urge.
The urge to relieve some pain
by causing more.

I would take that knife,
feel the cold steel,
against the healing cuts
from the day before.
I would run the blade
up and down
from my elbow to my wrist,
enjoying even the fact
that I could end my life
right then and there.

After the ritual
of playing with thoughts of the end,
I would press hard
and the bloody lines would form.

Sometimes I was careful,
making fancy designs,
and keeping the pain alive,
fueling it with the pleasure.

Sometimes I just slashed,
hoping that I would make
one more, fatal mistake.
Just hoping against hope,
to cut the vein and end it all.

That part of my life is over now,
but my arm still bears the scars.
Seeing those scars,
it gives me the urge...
The urgent need
to pick up the knife again.

I will not do it,
never again, my promise to you.
But still, need it.
I need that pain
to dull out all others.

No.

I have been
through hell and back
with nothing to show for it,
but these fading scars
running along my arm.
Never again.