The cut
On her bed, so still, she lies,
Can’t see through all the tears she cries,
Staring at the silent skies,
As her sanity slowly dies.
Like a robot she sits up.
A secret hidden in a cup,
The blade she uses for The Cut;
Deadly sharp and stained with blood.
She picks it up, breathing in,
Sharp edge is laid upon her skin.
Self harming – the way to win…
Or just another way to sin?
© REBEKAH SMITH November 2002.
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