Fistful of Razors

Save yourself with bleeding wrist.
Thought I'd never see the end of this.
I watched, dazed, as angels fell.
And made stupid jokes about heaven and hell.

The problem is I don't feel real.
Sold my soul, got a shitty deal.
All my life I've been told.
Morals can be bought and sold.

Ethics! Ethics? You fed me with that bullshit.
Every fucking day, and what did I get!?
A fistful of razors and an arm so distraught.
All because I fixated on what I was taught.

To be grateful for something.
I would give anything.
To feel something.
I would give everything.

17 years and now I dont care.
Could say it's sacrifice but I wouldn't dare.
After 4 years of poorly constructed suicide letters.
You'd think I would get somewhat better.

One day the scars will start to fade.
Good thing I made some yesterday.
Scars that stay will be reminders.
Sometimes we can't get much blinder.

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This poem is about when my friend Angie (Angel) died.
I could not believe someone so strong, so resilient, so young, could have her life just end. I did not come to terms with it till many years after the fact. I simply couldn't. The part about morals and ethics is me being disapointed in myself, and doctors, for not doing everything that could be done to save her. I blame myself for her death. I never cried, I couldn't, I have not shed a single tear since her life ended so many years ago. When I start thinking about her, and not being able to cry, I cut. I feel I deserve some punishment for what I did to her. I wish it was my life and not hers that was taken. I deserve mine a lot less.