They are getting tired of their monotonous, perfect lives,
Boredom, they want to tear themselves apart with painted talons,
But on the surface they remain calm, emotionless as porcelain dolls.
Their skin, clear and unmarked, has never felt the blade of a nail-scissors.
My scarred wrists were bloodstained glamour, excitement to them,
Hell to me, trying to escape, ruined attempts at being able to feel something,
Surrounded by images of "emo-kid" posers, who could easily stop cutting.
To them, my way of finding a way out of this nothingness is an acessory.
Then I return to the edge of the group, where the losers, loners and nobodies belong,
Backed into a corner, labelled by society and the 'populars',
They surround me, demand to see the scars, asking me to do it for them,
They want the freak-show that only I can give.
The four boys return to mock me, calling me ugly,
Then I say I want to die. Their response?
"You're suicidal? Cool!"