Whispers of the soul

One cut, a scratch, a droplet red,

A mark upon the skin I've bled.

Two cuts sting, a deeper trace,

The blood begins its solemn race.

Three cuts carve the surface wide,

Revealing what flesh might hide.

But soon it floods, a crimson stream,

A fleeting moment, a fragile dream

Four cuts bleed into six, then ten,

The lines blur out, I've lost it again.

My arms are rivers, the sink a sea,

And yet somehow, it comforts me.

The pain is sharp, it burns, it stings,

But in its grasp, a calm it brings.

The chaos quiets, my mind stands still,

As if, at last, I bend my will.

To you, it seems so dark, insane,

That I would trade my hurt for pain.

But don't pretend to understand,

This isn't a life I'd ever have planned.

"Just stop," you say, with hollow care,

But you don't know the weight I bear.

If quitting came as easy as breath,

I wouldn't flirt so close to death.

This habit clings, it binds, it traps,

An addiction birthed from mental gaps.

I tell myself, "I'd not have begun,"

Yet here I am; what's done is done.

The lies I weave become my balm,

A fleeting peace, a fragile calm.

You see my scars, but not my fight,

The darkness I endure each night.

So let me be, don't ask me why,

Don't seek to judge, or even try.

Until you've walked this path alone,