Broken

I fed my addiction,
I gashed my arm,
Blood flowed freely,
From the slice of a razors charm

I went deeper with each gash,
My arm was stained red,
I wanted to cry I wanted to scream,
I wanted out of my head.

I don't even know why I do it anymore,
Maybe I do it out of spite,
To all the pain in hurt,
That has held it's grip so tight.

I love as the blood flows,
So slow and so clean,
I'm ridding all the painful memories,
With my self destructive team.

I love looking at my insides,
And all the broken tissue,
that make up the broken me,
And the mind that hoards destructive issues.

I don't need to be fixed,
Society won't accept me and I don't give a damn,
If I cure my depression and anxiety,
Than I won't know who I am.

No one wants to think like a stranger,
Knowing their not who they are,
What separates me from you,
Is I wear a sleeve of scars.

The best part of tearing skin,
Is seeing words that can't be spoken,
And the sigh of relief when you realize,
That everything inside you is also broken.