I stared at my wrists,
Thin, pale scars stared back.
I promised everyone I would quit,
Mainly so they would leave me alone.
Words running through my mind.
Words carved on my arms.
Hate, ugly, fat, unloved.
The words that made me feel so small,
Permanently carved into my skin.
Everyone thinks I’m doing better,
that all the harsh words have stopped.
But they haven’t.
Everyone thinks I’ve stopped cutting,
But no one ever checks thighs.
Shattering heart,
Wounded soul.
How would she deal,
With all of this pain?
Wrists flowing red,
Mind screaming thoughts.
You’ve never heard a story,
Quiet like this.
She loved to draw,
And she loved to paint.
But, she used the wrong materials,
And it was all to late.
Her pen was a razor.
And her canvas,
Her wrist.
Her canvas was covered,
But she wasn’t finished yet.
Her canvas switched,
From her wrist to her thigh.
She wanted to keep drawing,
To show everyone her pain.
The drawings were getting deeper,
She was nearing the end.
She wanted someone to find her,
With her drawings on her skin.
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