She hated herself for what she’d become:
all alone with no one to talk to.
She didn’t know why
no one liked her. She couldn’t
understand what made her
different

She knew the moment she picked
up a blade she wouldn’t be able
to stop. She knew she would regret
this later. Picking up the blade
meant long sleeve shirts in
the middle of summer. This meant
living with the scars on her wrists,
forever. That moment of pain meant
a lifetime of remembering.

But she did it anyway.

She touched the blade to her skin
and cried when blood ran down
her wrist. Tears raced down her
face. With each cut she grew
angrier and angrier.
She took the blade to her skin
again and again and again.

She couldn’t take the pressure
to fit in anymore. She couldn’t handle
her parent’s constant push to be like her sister
she couldn’t take the fucking stares in the hallways
she couldn’t take it.

she was broken