A loner, scarred from years of fighting a battle against herself,
Counting each hour with a knifestroke, always off-centre,
Never dead-on the vein, just a red slit dividing two blue lines.
Some cuts forked razor-blade imprint, some just fading pink strips.
They call themselves friends, they mock her in her darkest hours,
Always ashamed to introduce her, always edit her out of the Saturday plans.
Just 'freak-on-a-leash' and 'that weirdo!' or 'ugly,' Never a human being,
Adults fear what flows away from the mainstream, they dole out the jaded advice,
"Get involved, talk to people, don't be on your own so much!"
"Be yourself, just not as extreme as you normally are, be more like them!"
'Them' the golden-elite-group, manicured claws out, ready to kill the odd one out.
Lying here, with the music turned up, Nine Inch Nails, my self-harm soundtrack,
I am nothing but a silent being, hiding behind this shield of noise,
Scissors digging into wrists, this time it's on-target.
I am the unwanted friend,
Used, abused, ready for the scrap-heap.
I am the daughter who failed,
I wish I could be what you wanted me to be,
All I ever wanted was to please you.