the years have past and the tears have dried,
i wonder why i haven't died.
a canvas my arm has become,
of cuts and burns, more will come.
things have changed, i'm not the same,
the cuts within bring more shame.
please don't point and ask me why,
it only makes me want to die.
when the blood flows is when i am free,
i can't expect others to see.
i try to hide, but i'm not very good.
they always see and i'm misunderstood.
they miss the point when i try to explain,
"by doing this, nothing is gained."
i know but it's just me.
i can't expect them to see.