Scars line my arm,

They call it self harm,

It doesn't hurt anymore,

No more crying on bedroom floors,

Imploring, begging, needing the world to stop,

To just be quiet, for a minute.

I write stuff, and I talk,

I look around, and I walk, 

But I'm a shell,

not an angel that fell,

just a girl,

alone in the world, 

with scars down her arm,

people telling her it's self harm,

and her crying, and dying inside.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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