Uncharacteristic Caring.

I'm usually so good
at not caring what others think.


I shouldn't care.
I shouldn't care.

But he just rags on me,
so that I can't take it.
I didn't do anything wrong.

I didn't do anything wrong.

 *

I am begged not to do it.
I am reasoned with,
I am comforted,
and yet still
I take the knife
and run it across.

Its like,
relief.
As if to say,
this is what happens.
You should have listened.

The slice across my wrist.
The love of the feeling.
Too long since my last.

To my love,
I'm sorry.
To my friends,
I'm sorry.
To that fucker,
I'm glad I did it.

At least now its me
who is hurting myself.
Not him
hurting me.

If there was a reason
for you to treat me so.
If there was something I did
that I could apologise for.

But there's not.
And you have no reason.

Except prejudice.
Except illusional superiority.
Except revenge for something that I didn't do.

I don't know why I care.
I don't know why it hurts.
I don't know why it effects me.

I was always so good

and not caring what others thought.

All I know is that I hate it.
And I hate you.
And that there is nothing more I can do.

So in turn,
you hurting me,
causes me to hurt me,
which causes me to hurt him,
so he hurts you.

You always were one for logic.