An Addiction

You ask me "why do you do it?"
when I wear shorts and shirts,
showing my obvious scars.

You cry "why did you do it?"
as you're sitting next to me,
when I'm laying in a hospital bed.

You yell "why did you do it?"
when I'm laying in my box,
finally at peace.

I reply, "because it helps me"
as I try to cover my scars,
now uncomfortable in my own skin.

I cry, "because I feel so lost,"
poking the IV in my arm,
my mind going numb,
the voices attacking.

I whisper, "because I want to die."
My voice, now the wind,
and I touch your shoulder,
knowing you can no longer see me.