Why?

A confessional poem I wrote for English class.

Blood on the ground, blood on my skin.
Why do I let those cruel knives in?
Why don’t I just defend myself?
Don’t I care for my mental health?
Yes – that’s why, that’s why I hold back
And leave my heart bare to attack.
I’m not as helpless as I seem,
Nor do I live within a dream.
You’ve never seen her, but she’s here,
Here in my mind, drinking my tears.
This other me, this inner beast
Who on their blood would love to feast.
And so she is caged, deep within;
To let her loose would be a sin.
She says she’d just stop them, and not
Go too far. I quake at the thought;
I do not trust her, this shadow –
Me and not me, life without glow.
I could unleash this dark being,
Let my cruel half fix cruel things.
I shudder when I look at you,
But not for fear of what you’ll do.
It’s her, this beast within I fear,
It’s her crimes that I hold back here.
I’d rather see my blood than yours,
Rather bleed than open the doors
And let this monster wreak revenge
For all that’s happened, all that’s been.
She’s never killed, was always kept
Safely inside while I have wept.
Still, no harm in making certain
By dropping down heavy curtains.
It’s not what I’ve done, but instead
What could happen that fills my head.
Their blood is not spilt on the ground,
Their screams don’t really echo ’round,
Their hearts don’t lie crushed into pulp,
There’s no poison in drinks they gulp,
Death does not yet tighten his grip –
But could it be if my shields slip?
Never my plan and not my past,
But every day could be the last,
The final calm before the storm,
My last adherence to the norm.
So I hold back and simply bleed;
It’s better than that dreadful deed.

Author's Note

For all you kind people who, like my friends, become concerned for my health - the blood is only metaphorical. I am NOT a cutter.