I'm Not Sylvia Plath

I read a book once;
you may have read it.
Alice started drugs
and then couldn't quit.

Friend talked about it;
she gave it to me.
But because of,
or despite it,
My interest in drugs was unhealthy.

First high and I was hooked.
What did it matter if I couldn't quit?
It could ruin my life?
Whatever.
Honestly, I didn't give a sh!t.

So...I cut myself the other night.
I know I said I'd quit,
but when blood drips off my fingertips,
I feel alive, so free, and forget. 

Sure, I had to hide the mark,
Cloth rubbing against the slit.
Yet deep inside the night's dark,
I wade in Death's black pit.

And there I don't get fevers,
Choking pain or nausea.
My fingers twitch, skin crawls,
Scars ache with sweet nostalgia.

Perhaps I am dependent,
an addict going through withdrawal.
Yet the deeper the puddle of red on the floor,
the less I feel at all.

And who's who to say what's sick?
Diagnose you.
Poison you to be healthy.
Call me cynical but I have found
Mona Lisa we can't all be.

And would you want to be so stable,
no flaws hidden within yourself?
No nail-biting, no snorting when you laugh.
Sure you'd be perfect and just like someone else.

Well perfection is a potent high but
you'll never peak chasing its opium breeze.
As for me?
I'll illuminate my flaws with pride-
And hide gashes under my sleeve.