Cutters point of view

I have a question to ask,
For those of you,
Who don't understand,
A cutters point of view.

If you were in pain,
And felt the world was cruel,
And you couldn't feel,
Didn't know what to do.

Then one day,
You get a scratch,
You see the blood,
And make one to match.

The cuts you make,
Let you feel once more,
Like for once this world,
Didn't close the door.

So you cut again and again,
Just to know your alive,
Knowing this small escape,
Helps your sanity thrive.

Then people start to notice,
Start calling you names,
"You don't understand,
I'm not the one to blame."

But they don't stop,
Though it brings you closer to death,
Your parents get mad,
You scream "At least i don't do meth!"

That was a bad thing to say,
Cause thats what your parents do,
She hits you and yells,
"At least I'm not a mistake like you!"

You scream at her as you run to your room,
"I hope that you OD."
And its true,
Then you would be free.

That night as you wait for sleep to take over,
Your father enters your room,
"At least you know i love you."
He says as he rapes you with the handle of a broom,

But you don't show,
Don't let them see,
That tonight for the last time,
You'll make yourself bleed,

This may seem sad,
But it's awfully true,
Now you know the world,
From this cutters point of view.