A Cut

A cut appears on your arm,
The blood drips and drips until another cut joins,
A cut for lost love,
A cut or two for disappointed parents,
A cut for being a shell of your former self,
Your blade is your only friend,
The pain is your only sense of comfort,
Once your done, you wash away the blood,
Hide the pain, hide the scars,
You don't say anything, not even a whisper,
Your pain just makes your mind stronger but your soul weaker,
Shoulders hunch in exhaustion,
Not from the cuts or the pain,
But from the feeling of being unheard,
Another day, another cut,
One for good luck, one for addiction,
But your too far gone,
When even the cuts don't help,
You pick up a knife, a gun,
You ditch the blade and go for something bigger,
You make another cut just for old time-sake,
Then you push the knife into your heart,
You bleed and bleed but don't die,
How is this possible, you cry
So you pick up the gun and place it near your head,
You think of the all the words that you never said,
You smile weakly and think,
All a cutter needs is a friend,
Someone to listen, someone to help,
But its too late for that , you say softly,
As you shoot yourself and end the pain