The burning cross is scarred upon my wrist,
I wish it was forever but blades only cut so deep,
An outline blurred by scabs, distorted,
But the dull ache reminds me that I'm still real.
Rain pounds the ceiling like a rainfall of bullets,
Trailing fire across a watercolour sky.
The page remains as blank as the expressions on the faces,
Of those who won't try to understand me.
To them I'm just a freakish misfit,
Hiding in a notebook.
I defend myself with a shield of negativity,
Hopelessness and I-Don't-Care.
They say I can't just give up,
But I've fought a war with myself for far too long,
"You can't give up!"
Well I just did.