Everyday around quarter past three, you burst into the bathroom searching for me. I'm hidden by your mother while you are away. She says you’re incredibly unstable these days. I feel your anger as your hand grips me tight. I am the only one that helps you sleep, like how you once used to. I live to reveal my strength as the scars on your wrist. I leave my marks in flesh and I'm proud of it. I watch patiently as the blood slowly drips. It’s so nice the way it runs from your fingertips. A sadness you cannot let go of. A choreographed ballet of sharp steel, dancing and sliding the right way, vertically up your wrists. A streak of rust and blood. You would be better off if you would stop procrastinating. Grab me and your liquid crutch. This is all you deserve. “Why do I keep waking? I am ready, please let me sleep.”