While I write you this note, 

My blood seems to pour, 

My tears smudge make-up, 

And then drop to the floor. 

While I write you this note, 

I fight off the urge, 

To cut and to hurt, 

But the need starts to surge. 

While I write you this note, 

Their words start to sting, 

I want to feel blood, 

And the relief it will bring. 

While I write you this note, 

The urge makes me itch; 

Make one final cut,

That can not be stitched. 

While I write you this note;

My final goodbye, 

I pick up my knife, 

And wish life to fly.