It Hurts

The pain of depression given a physical form.

I'll cut my skin and let the blood drain down the sink,

"Why do you do this to yourself?" 

you ask me, disgusted and confused. 

It's because I'm in pain.

But you can't see this kind of pain. 

I can show what I feel by

   ripping the hair off my head. 

By pulling out my nails,

knocking out my teeth,

breaking the bones in my hands. 

Let me pry open my ribs, 

   snip the arteries in my heart, 

    show you my under-oxygenated lungs. 

That's how it hurts. But you can't see it.