this is how it works:

one:

you can't help it.
well, maybe you could,
but you're too far gone now to help anything.

two:

the blame just feels like another scar,
and you accept it just as you accept
every other mark left on your body.

three:

you feel more empty
than anything inside
and that scares you.

four:

you told yourself that
this time would be different.
but it wasn't.

five:

but it wasn't.
but it wasn't.
but it wasn't.

six:

you tell yourself that it's fine,
that the blood will fade away soon.
you know you deserve this.

seven:

but it's not a question of deserving:
it's a matter of discerning
if you're alive or dead.

eight:

you feel too hollow to be alive
but your blood is still flowing.
what does that make you?"

nine:

it makes you a monster
and you scratch at that spot on your wrist
until it looks as ugly as your soul.

ten:

and then it's over.
but, it never truly is.
that spot on your wrist hasn't been blank for months.

eleven:

but that's okay;
there's no one who notices it.
so it goes.

twelve:

so it goes
so it goes
so it goes.

thirteen:

you can't keep doing this;
your demons now control everything you do
but you can't tell anyone.

fourteen:

you're not in control.
you're a puppet in your own skin,
cruelly and utterly helpless.

fifteen:

you're so sorry
for the mark on your wrist.
you're sorry clutching that razor.

sixteen:

nothing is real
except for the blood on your wrist
and even that's starting to look fake.

seventeen:

you never expected to make it this far in life.
the past four years have been taken from you;
what about this one?

now:

but it doesn't matter.
so it goes
so it goes.