Why I Cut

Why do I cut I hear you ask,
as I take off my final mask,
to expose myself as who I am,
to explain it all the best I can.

You'd seen the scars upon my arm,
deep cuts on legs that caused alarm,
wounds like these were meant to last,
to remind me of my bitter past.

My dad the drunk, he used to hit her,
why do that to my sister?
Standing at her grave, a girl of seven,
Mummy said she went to heaven.
And my older brother leading me to bed,
the pillow on which he'd force my head,
he'd cover my mouth so I shouldn't whimper,
I'd be raped, can I put it simpler?

So you ask me now why cut myself,
clearly worried for my mental health,
but the doctors pills they just don't work
just like that song, they make things worse.

I cut myself to feel the pain,
and as that cold sharp blade opens me again,
sometimes I'll laugh, sometimes I'll cry,
but still I hear you ask me why?

The feelings electric, as the blood starts to flow,
my paranoia, anxiety, depression all start to go,
I finally see that I'm alive, that I am free,
that I can accept that I am me.