Sitting in my room alone,
Sitting looking at the phone...

Urges come over me,
The tears continue to flow...

They ask me what I want for Christmas,
I tell them that I don't know yet...

The sound of the knife, calling my name,
it's too hard to ignore, I can't play this game...

The tears on my face,
The cuts on my wrist...

In those rare moments when I feel fine,
You bring me down and my all healed wrist develops...

And with these final words I'll end my life,
I never thought this would be how I'd die...

The knife is my best friend,
The friend I love to hate...

My perfect life is all a lie,
A lie that no one sees through...

Words can be damaging,
Your words are killing me...

I told myself I wouldn't do it,
I thought that I was above all of this stuff...

I wrote you a poem,
I wrote it with a blade...