I remember one time

Someone said to me,

"What? Were you emo or something?"

And they laughed.

And I laughed,

But I didn't say anything.

To me, it's not funny.

That rusty blade

Pulled out from a pink disposable razor

Hidden in a hollowed-out book

That looks too boring

for anyone to look at.

That dull, bent,

Damnable silver

that calls out my name 

In broad daylight.

It loves the taste of flesh,

And adores biting through my veins. 

It lives off of the salt from tears.

It chews my skin.

My wrists,

My shoulder,

My thigh,

My side.

It cuts me open like foam.

This is no laughing matter.

This is Hell.

Self harm kills.

I've been on the brink before.

I've been ready to dive into suicide.

It's not that easy, though. 

Killing myself would kill others. 

My mom,

My best friend,

My boy friend,

My favorite teacher. 

They don't understand how much it hurts. 

I live for them. 

I live to be better

For them. 

I live to make them happy. 

I live because I need to improve.

This is no laughing matter. 

Live to kill that razor,

Not yourself.