Why?
Why do you do it? What makes you choose to run the edge across your skin?
Why?
Why does it seem a good idea to cut... when if you press a little deeper your life could end...
Why?
Why is it a good thing to make your loved ones suffer? To make them cry almost every day? Even the innocents, your freinds... what did they do to get that jab in their stomach whenever that word...
Cut.
Cutter.
Cutting.
Graces the lips of another being...
Why?
Paint, music, dance, literature, exercise...
All of these you could turn to, yet you choose to get a half-an-hour high... And the high won't come back... so you go deeper and deeper until...
Boom.
Black out.
Hospitals.
Therapist.
Tears.
Why not throw away the razor and begin anew... Replace it with art, or distractions.
Ignore your mind. No matter how much you throb, don't let it control you.
It controls you.
A snake, constricting the life from your eyes.
Until...
I look. And there is someone else...
In what used to be your eyes.
Someone emotionless, numb, uncaring of the world.
You're gone.
Lost.
Your body remains a puppet to the devil... to that razor.
Everything 'you' see is now dark, unhappy, frowning...
You feel insignificant...
Uncared for...
And alone...
And the people who love you, you are doing the same to them... They are dying too.
But you are too selfish.
Too wrapped in your own satisfaction...
To see you are killing them.