One, two, three, four lines
All on her soft, thin wrists.
Two across, two intersecting.
Alone in a black corner,
Sitting with dispair; she watches
The ruby red blood pour out.
The sting silences her sobs,
For this is her secret.
Her way of coping with life and her pain.
She dares not tell anyone.
So she blares her music through the speakers,
jotting the struggle out with a pen and paper.
Outside these walls,
She wears a mask upon her face.
Not many see through it.
Most wouldn't dare attempt to.
Wearing the latest style,
With straight-A grades;
No one suspects a thing.
Not even her own mother,
Her heroine. The woman of her life.
No not her,
Because the girl doesn't try to confide in her.
No one sees the tears,
silently falling down her face from her newest nightmare.
No on sees the redness in her eyes,
From the joint she's put out.
They don't even see the razor blades,
Hiding in her jean's pocket.
No one sees because no one tries.
This is exactly how she wants it to be.