this infection

Things got bad inside my head.
I relapsed, so who gives a fuck?
I'm still alive. I am not dead
because I chose to make a cut
but just one cut is not enough.
I've gone too far, I've crossed the line.
My arms - the skin is coarse and rough.
I fake a smile and swear I'm fine.

This need in me, it must be fed.
I did not tell the ones I trust.
I chose to cut my arms instead,
I don't know why they make a fuss
when I need stitches just to shut
the depth of harm. It's not a crime
to take the pain, it's just self-love.
I fake a smile and swear I'm fine.

To speak of it fills me with dread.
It shows my caliber of luck
when I am pieced back up with thread
because my sharps were full of rust.
It fills me with a sort of lust
every single fucking time
I cut or bleed, when I throw up
I fake a smile and swear I'm fine.

I didn't lie. I only said
I would not give up what was mine.
I'm only calm when I have bled.
I fake a smile and swear I'm fine.