Your soft skin is tearing,
Your voice is cracking, trying to sing.
Your hands are shaking, cold chillings runs down your spine.
No escape,
No place to hide.
Inside, you're dying, fighting for the smallest sliver of hope.
You died in that cocoon, you never became a butterfly.
Knifes are ordinairy now, you know them all too well.
As they cut and damage your resolve, you suddenly know it and it occurs to you...
Death is coming for you, it talks, whispers even:
''Go back to sleep my child, you've sufferd enough...''
This poem is dedicated to all the victims who struggle in their teen years, some who did survive self harm, some who didn't....
It is sad how feeling sometimes can destroy us
