The Nerve

Armored with the passion to hurt myself,
To see myself bleed,
To cover the scars of the harsh blows
Upon which the greedy scavengers did feed.

I cut open this wound
And hit the right nerve,
Which, for so long
Had nothing but empty memories to conserve.

The fragile flow of the blood flowing through these poisoned veins,
Oozing out of these violent slashes;
Exposing my weaknesses to the greedy souls,
Leaving me with nothing but dead ashes.

The sneers, the humiliating laughter;
The torment they’ve had in their spell,
Have ripped up my steel armor;
Driving me more inside of my shell.

Bloodstains in the sink,
Drops all over the floor,
Show nothing, but my fears, (or so to think)
Killing the coward inside all the more.

The continued stabs I’ve received,
Have made me hide behind my wall.
They could hit me in the right spot again.
I fear the thought. I fear it all.

I try to blankly face the attackers,
But the very thought leaves me shocked.
I’m afraid at being stabbed in the heart again.
I’m afraid at again being mocked.

My heart- now turned lead,
Is yearning to let go
This weak soul I’ve held on for too long.
That’d mean killing the real me, though.

Do I need to write on these empty walls
The feelings and confessions before I die?
Or, can anyone figure the reason without seeing the blood?
Can someone at least give it a try?