8th circle of hell

I am a waste of life
life is wasted on me
they called me friend
yet I would see them bend
break their rules and heads
for someone who wets the bed
in the midst of chaos I lose their grip
this hand from left excuses me a slip
oh sweet pain! you return at last

I like to bleed
the sear of a wound
dripping crimson ink
lightens the burden
absolves my guilt
or so I feel it drain
my sins silently, along with memories
under showers where no one will see
I lie still, remembering why
it makes perfect sense in the moment
the incision will be subtle, but deep
enough to hurt and spill from

I will disguise my face
so no one can know
the obvious truth that lurks
beneath this skin of glee
I should have been accustomed
to losing what I love and care about
even if they mean nothing, I'd still want them around
It's harder than it looks to let go
wound around my fingers, the strings, cutting into them
and I pull, I still pull, till the bleeding is a norm
but eventually they'll take my fingers along
and I will fall, not from pride, or high
but gall, against myself
into pity and apathy
sneakily creeping through the silences
I'll look for resolve in darker things
and wither in the light of regret
until the next string breaks
and the cycle begins again.