Warning-This poem contains themes of self harm.
Note-This is one of my old poems so it is a bit different from my other ones.

Sometimes I hate the memories.
The fresh wounds are red and the scars are white.
They remain to remind me
How painful life used to be.

I can visualize the ****** razor in my hand,
And I can count scars,
One by one.
I can taste the metallic blood that's running down my aching wrist,
Running down my arm in watercolor strokes of maroon.

I can't keep my hands off blades,
And throughout my life I've cut away,
Just because I can't handle pain,
So I put it in a different form.
Where the memories and scars of it will remain.
I can feel the pain and imagine the blood stains on white carpets,
Trying to scrub away the mess of the pain I've caused myself.

Even though there's no longer pain,
The scars still remain.
And the memories,
The cuts,
Will never truly fade.