A knife is my friend, We play by night. When the sun shines, out friendship is banned. My friend and I, We have our stories, Most of which are written on my arm. If my friend could talk, She would reveal, Secrets of hurt, sorrow and fear. But not only that, She would also show, The way that I deal, With the feelings I know. My friends never cries, fights, or betrays me. She only listens when I weep. Offers a rush, A rush of adrenaline, A rush of life, A feeling of power, In my immortal self. If scars could speak, Mine would only whisper, For that is the tone, My soul only knows. My heart might speak, softly and calm. But my brain only hears, Harsh words and mean tones. These noises that fill my head, and my heart, are words spoken around me. And words from my thought, "You're too ugly," "Why are you so dumb," "You never care," "You never care," You never try." These sayings are normal, My thoughts unrestrained. My heart softly whispers, "That's not who I am" But my heart is not heard. Only my actions and thoughts, Which lead me to be, Friends with a killer, My knife.