IT runs down my arms, as I silently cry. 
Locked up in my room, alone, trying to make them run dry.
I stare at the slash before I watch the knife make another,
It's not me making the marks, it can't be, but it is.
The blood runs down my arms, it's beautiful to me. 
It means another second of freedom from this life that I
own
Another second of freedom, another minute of pain, 
The beauty runs down my arms.
I don't know why they say it's in my face, my personality,
Because when I look I see scars.
It strikes my skin again and again, letting the air get into
my veins.
I wince in pain, but fearlessly, I take another turn,
The bleeding just gets worse and worse, each passing second
making me more calm.
The beauty does not ly in my face, nor my body, 
It lies in the red streaks moving gracefully down my arms.
I slide the knife under my bed, wrap the wounds in gauze,
throw my jacket on so no one can see, and head out the
door.
Only a few know, the others don't understand, they don't see
the pain I feel, the emptyness in this life.