I was twelve when I first started doing it,

You could blame it on puberty or a teenagers strong hormones,

But as I feel each slit,

I can remember the knife I used,

The room I was in,

I look at the patterns remembering each of my reasons,

You could call me mental,

I don't disagree,

But I haven't lost hope,

You could call me emotional,

I don't disagree,

I vent to myself constantly,

Regretting the reminders I have given to myself of my tragic past,

I constantly shake,

My nerves getting the best of me,

Passive aggression taking control of me,

You could call me a hopeless believer,

I strongly pray that you are wrong.