Here is a poem i wrote about my cutting to help many others:

Marks of Pain
.
I can't stand it.
All the whispers-
            Like fingernails dragging down an old chalkboard.
I hear comments from the people ,
Who have hurt me.
            What has she done?
             And
             What did she do to those ugly wrists of hers?
Well you should know,
You made it lead to this.
The scars that burn my wrists-
           Like a fire on a cool summer night.
But I can't out this fire.
It will stay with me for the rest of my life.
And having the feeling of no heart left.
             Because you ripped it out with your own bare hands.
But I didn't feel it through the warm tears,
              Running down my face.
But I can feel it now because the tears are gone,
And you made me hate myself with a burning passion.
So these scars will remind me of how-
             I was the messenger,
             And you were the one who
             Sent the letter
                          With marks of Pain.