Pacing the room, like a caged animal
Her thoughts are slowly killing her.
Not good enough.
A familiar itch pulls her to her closet,
A box of razors.
Her secret stash.
She pulls one out.
She draws a red line across her thigh.
Too many to count.
Minutes pass like hours,
And she is spent.
Lying on the floor,
Wishing herself away from this hell.
She regrets the first cut she ever made.