Doesn’t always mean cutting your wrists open,
hanging off the ceiling fan,
or throwing yourself off the roof.
It could also mean smoking your lungs out,
or driving recklessly;
‘Someone loves you, drive with care’, read the signs,
but where’s the proof.
A dream, a chance or a woman’s charm,
make you put away your insecurities, disarm;
You want to live your life to the fullest, chase them;
realize it was all lies, regret them.
Abandoned, heart broken, left open;
You cut open your wrists and your palm,
hoping it would act as a balm,
never did you realize, it was only self-harm.
You contemplate on who you are,
who you wanted to be,
who you would have been, if she hadn’t left.
You draw a single-colored portrait of the love of your life;
The skin – your canvas,
The razor – your paintbrush.
As the poorly drawn lines of blood ooze down your arm,
a singularly distinct face appears in the pattern,
who you believed was your one true love.
Surprisingly, it isn’t the face of the bitch that dumped you,
it is the one you see everyday in the mirror.
Red blood then,
black ink now,
the artist is still the same,
just his tools have changed.
As you pen down your words,
you send thoughts of self-esteem to anyone who reads them,
like messages tied to the feet of birds.
so as you learn to love yourself again,
and the sunshine seeps back into the sepia,
the only question you ask yourself is,
whether that was self-harm or self-discovery.
In India, every year, nearly 60,000 adolescent or youth deaths are reported to be because of self harm. To each and every one out believes that physical pain would numb the mental pain… you’re not alone. You are loved. Everything will be alright. You just have to believe.