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I cut myself this morning.

I cut myself deep.

My skin starts to tingle.

And my demons start to creep.

I cut a little deeper.

And i kind of like the pain.

I stare into my bathroom mirror.

And i cut myself again.

My cutting tool of choice.

Is a sharp little pocket knife.

I cut because i am always afraid.

My knife is my one and only friend.

I will cut until the bitter end.

I cut myself one more time.

And a line of blood appears on my face.

I look into my mirror.

But i stare into space.

I cut a little deeper.

And hope that my memories will disappear.

My blood runs down my face.

And mingles with my tears.

I don’t usually cut my face.

But my life has become a living hell.

I had to deal with a lot of people.

And i don’t do that well.

I cut myself again.

With my trusty little blade.

And i watch my blood flow.

I love my fucking knife.

It gets me through my life.

I know that i am a huge failure.

I never do anything right.

I try my best but it is never good enough.

Why do i even get out of bed.?

Who is that person living in my head?

My favourite colour is blue.

So why do i like blood so much?

Just a little nick.

And i feel some pleasure.

A pleasure that cuts through the pain.

I  feel some sort of release.

Some well earned peace.

A few of my friends at work.

Asked me about the cuts on my face.

I told them that i got scratched by my neighbours cat.

They laughed ‘Was it a fucking tiger?’

I tried to laugh with them.

But i could barely manage a smile.

While beneath the table i fondle my trusty blade of steel.

Only my knife knows how i feel.

I cut for the first time when i was thirteen.

I thought i was just your normal schoolboy

But the other kids thought different.

And they let me know in no uncertain terms.

I was constantly on my guard.

With a belly full of worms.

I was called names had my hair pulled

And some of the other kids even spat on my face.

That is when i retreated into my mind.

And went to a better place.

So i bought myself a pocket knife.

And started to cut.

The best places to cut.

Was my inner arms and thighs.

I cut and cut with silent cries.

When i was fourteen.

I was brutalised so much at school i could barely


I struggled home a broken little boy.

The other kids had taken all of my joy.

That night i ran myself .

To try to drown away my sorrows.

As i washed myself my eyes were drawn to my fathers razor

sitting on the edge of the tub.

I picked it up and gave it a tender rub.

The razor was a wilkerson sword of unknown vintage.

Old and rusty but sharp just the same.

As i held that razor.

I heard it calling my name.

One deep cut.

And all of my pain would be gone.

But o couldn’t do it.

I didn’t want my parents to find me in a bath full

of blood.

So i just gave myself a shallow cut.

And marvelled at the drops of red.

I smiled at the sight.

And toddled off to bed.

I cut because i feel like it.

I cut because i can.

I cut to free myself.

I cut to be a better man.

They say that the first cut is the deepest.

But my deepest cut is yet to come.

It might be tomorrow or the day after that.

But my deepest cut will be one day very soon.

Of that i can give you a guarantee.

So listen really well.

Because this is my final plea.


Thanks for taking the time to read one of my stories now if you have the means could you please make a donation so i can realize mt dream of becoming a fulltime writer. Thanks again Steven.