A deep depression holds him,
My son, my flesh and blood.
He now craves a new kind of pain,
He creates small red floods.

A cut across forearm,
Tearing the veins apart.
And every chunk of flesh removed,
Is echoed in my heart.

But why does my son do this?
I can not understand.
Does he believe some blood is bad,
And let it stain the land?

And I try to be there for him,
But he just turns me away.
And then cuts himself for feeling guilt,
Like there's a debt he has to pay.

Now I'm not good at writing,
But I write this poem today,
To ask why does he do this?
Cutting both our lives away.