Cuts on my arm, cuts on my wrist.
What did I do to deserve all this?
With every slice, with every tear
I stumble through another year
of pain from trying, thoughts of dying.
Save me from myself.

[Short. Not sweet. I actually wrote hundreds of little blurbs like this when I was in inpatient treatment. Sad, but if anything, I believe mental anguish produces the most beauty. Tragic beauty, but definitely exceptional.]