They never saw the frown he wore,

in his room behind closed door,

he let them believe that he was fine,

breath inhales as he draws a line.

No one would understand the relief,

a moment in time if only brief,

of razors edge against bare skin,

cutting deep, cutting thin.

Only he and God do know,

of how he marks his body so,

scars have formed from inside out,

alone he feels without a doubt.

He knows not why he feels this need,

a need to wound, a need to bleed,

within the torment of his mind,

no better release can he find.

Some day perhaps he will feel freed,

from this obsession, from this need,

but until that time comes to be,

to razors edge he will flee.

By: Beverly Beekmans (2010)