Butchered

And I am so vain,

To think myself worthy of being butchered,

When there is nothing worth butchering,

The lines drawn on my skin are red and angry,

Instead of clinical and black,

They are deep and scarred,

Instead of light and dotted,

Yet, with a surgeon's precision, I vainly butcher myself,

Cutting,

And cutting,

And cutting once again,

And of course all to be found is filthy blood,

Diseased, disgusting blood,

White blood cells have long fled my corpse,

As it is unworthy of protection.

And I am left to rot in my own little corner of the world,

Always cutting,

Always butchering.