Please stop cutting - 

cutting your arms, 

your wrists,  

your hands,  

your mind.

You make me cry when you tell me  

that it's your only light of sanctuary.  

You say you've tried it all -  

methods little, like a stinging ice cube; 

writing letters of expression, methods tall.

Please stop cutting, 

I'm asking nicely. 

You're not the only one who bleeds when you use that knife. 

A knife, 

or glass,  

or anything sharp. 

It ultimately won't help. I know. Please stop.

Please stop cutting. 

You're my best friend, 

and I'd bend over backwards if it'd make the pain 

fade away into the atmosphere;

wash it away like acid rain. 

Not thinking isn't the way,

nor is cleansing yourself of emotions. 

Maybe if you found the root of the problem  

instead of cutting it off

with a slow, steady drag of a sliver, metal flag,

then you would figure out the reason

to your sorrow instead of bleeding.

Please stop cutting,  

it's not safe.

The hate will burrow inside of you - 

trust me. I learned my lesson last April.

Maybe if you asked a friendly adult for help - 

I bet they wouldn't tell your mom or dad 

if they thought that it would make you feel less sad. 

The darkened singe on your skin 

and tick marks on your arm make me weep for you.

I can't stand to see you like this  

because it's not your fault for your family's silliness. 

Don't take it out on yourself - 

please talk to me, or anyone else. 

So many people care for you, and it's not fake either. 

Please stop cutting, if for nothing else,  

then for me. I love you so much.