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And it takes just as much out of you trying to help the cutter as the cutter themselves
Ive noticed a lot of people writing poems about cutting from a first person point of view, but I will attempt to write it as a person lookin into it
I dont know why you do it, cause pain upon yourself,
Call me for support, but then refuse the offered help.
Go to see you at home and I get a glimpse the scars,
Fearing that one day you might take it too far,
and Ill be seein and talking to you through the stars.
Promise you'll stop, say youll never pick up the razor again,
Next night, call me cryin, because you did it again.
I ask you why you do it? but you cant come with a response.
All you say is that you feel like your a person nobody wants.
It becomes a daily routine, something thats so onscene,
that after hearing your description it leaves my face all green.
You have a weapon of choice, if not razors then knives,
but what is it solving, because I can still see pain in your eyes.
Lying to your parents, saying the cuts were simply a fluke,
and its gotten to the point where you cant even tell me the truth.
Done hours of research, talked to all the known doctors,
but nothing I do or say can seem to make any kind of alter.
Tried the guilt, but you simply broke my heart,
gave you paper after paper, but you just tore them apart.
Offered to get you help, but you just ran away,
came to you with open arms but you turned my hands away.
So what am I to do? the person I love I cant help,
and its rubbing off upon me, because Im hating myself.
Your dealing with something with such an unpayable fee,
Im starting to see, that because of you theres a cutter in me.
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