I clutch the small pencil sharpener blade with trembling hands,
Drawing line after line on my thigh.
Instead of writing line after line to say goodbye,
Because I have letters to write so I have reasons to stay,
But I can\'t suffocate in this pain.
So, I draw line after line.
Using the blade from a pencil sharpener
Stolen from school.
A place where people laugh to your face
And behind your back.
Where false, sharp words spread faster
Then the blood that runs down my leg.
As I draw,
Line after line.
The blood trickling down my thigh,
A painful reminder of hands that once ran it,
Under my shorts.
Making me lose not only my innocence,
But my respect for myself,
Because now I\'m dirty.
As I was used over and over,
But at least I was useful for something.
So, I draw line after line.
As dark thought consume my mind,
Speaking crueler words to me than any of peers,
My own mind telling me,
I\'m not good enough,
Not smart enough,
Not funny enough,
Not pretty enough.
I wish I could change
This part and that every time I look in the mirror.
Hoping I can reflect the faked beauty I see on my screen.
So, I draw line after line.
I convince myself I\'m the only one.
I\'m alone in this suffering.
So why should I ask for help?
No one will understand.
They\'ll judge,
And talk,
And laugh,
or will they?
But I’m not alone;
because it’s me,
And 5.49 million other teens,
Who use pain as an escape from the numbness,
From the cruelty of world,
From words that cut deeper than any blade ever could.
But we survive by drawing line after line into our skin.
Instead of filling lined pages with our final words,
Because we have things to say,
And people to say them to.
So, we draw line after line,
Instead of saying goodbye.