Ok, so I haven't shared this one because it's my private poetry, and I was a little afraid to share it. But this is my story

The scars on my wrist were once cuts.
Red and bleeding, dripping blood.
They say there is no point to it but
It drives away the pain

'How?' They say, to my simple explanation.
'cutting youself is more pain ontop.'
Ah, I say, but this is my salvation,
external pain helps my internal pain stop.

I have counted each and every one,
Each a word, a rumour, a name.
I could tell you the story behind them once,
I have ended all my pain.

Forty seven adorn my left arm,
I have carved to word end.
Not for me to end my life,
But of how much of myself I condescend.

Hidden on my ribs, the faded nine.
Hidden from sight, you think i'm fine.
You've seen me smile for so many years,
But never have you seen my tears.

Along with that, the single word CRY.
I never wished for me to die.
I simply wanted the pain the end,
I simply wanted a caring friend.

And on my hip, I hold twelve
Easily forgotten when I dwell
Upon the past that tortured me,
Along with the three towards my knee.

Seventy one, not counting the words, eighty nine if you are.
The pain has stopped, I no longer cut,
But my blades are never far.

- Briannah