Hey guys this poem contains mentions of self harm, wanting to cause self harm, and contemplating about suicide. 

Don't fucking say I'm doing this for some attention this is my form of coping so don't fucking try it at all.

The siren's call is growing louder and louder.

It's getting even more hard to resist the urge.

The urge to go back to slitting my wrists.

Oh, how I miss the string of the blade against my skin.

Oh, to see that crimson liquid come out.

I miss seeing that.

The call is even getting even more hard to ignore.

I wonder how it would feel to plunge that silver blade into my chest.

Would it stop the noise?

Will it end my pain?

Oh, how I long to plunge the blade into my chest.

What's wrong with me?

Why do I want this?

Oh well it doesn't matter anymore.

The urge is to great to ignore.

I have to get that relief the blade gives me.

I'm sorry I just couldn't ignore the Siren's call anymore.

-Numa/Liz