What A Razor Is To Me

When that dark presence,
Fills my thoughts,
To my blade I will turn,
For the pleasure I sought.

Straight dark scars, cover my body.
From my broken dreams,
And the loves I have lost.
My head swirls, as red ink I see.

The blood now forced out, with the use of my self-harm.
Now, as you worry and plea,
For me to stop, this lovely trick I've learned.
This sweet creation, that allows me to be.

We both know it won't go away,
These scars on my arm, are forever to stay.
Seeing them fade, it almost makes me sad.
And when I tell you, you only get mad.

You say I don't need it,
That I can fight. but still you fail to see,
When I'm fighting everyday.
To keep myself alive.

To keep from putting,
A bullet in my skull.
I cut, and I cut.
Until my blade turns dull.

Do not fear though, its never too deep.
Just deep enough, so my eyes will not weep.
I know how to stop it,
After I've seen the blood I needed to meet.

When I go to the store, I grab my necessities.
No turning back, Peroxide, gauze, and scar cream too.
Vaseline, and never too few, packs of fresh bandages.
Plus the makings of a new tourniquet for that 'Just in case'.

But lets not forget, the most important item to me.
That fresh pack of razors, I clutch in my hand.
Its not for the pain, no that's only one part.
They're my survival tool.

My razor is my best friend,
It gives me strength to fight on.
My razor grants me focus, you say it only hurts me.
But in truth, My razor is what keeps me alive.