the language that i speak,

is nothing but demented insanity to you.

a trickle of blood down my arm,

a silent scream you'd never see through.

a language of pain and tears,

of broken souls that dance among the stars.

you demanded proof of my struggles,

so i sliced my arms and bled you novels of my art.

but my language fell on deaf ears,

you never really wanted to behold my true pain.

you took my one method of coping,

and condemned my desperate attempts to stay sane.

and i tend to see your face,

looking upon the scars that once bled my pleas.

a language that i often struggle to mute,

because the addiction became my inability to be free.