The isolation, the longing to destroy myself,
Or every other thing that has ever hurt me,
The sick pride and triumph that builds as scars appear,
"You'll all be sorry when I'm dead."
"Why does everyone hate me?"
"I mess everything up, it's all my fault, I'm so ugly, nobody will miss me."
The fear when the bleeding won't stop,
"Oh god, I've actually done it, I'm dying."
Frantically wrapping my wrist in a towel,
Holding new scars closed with masking tape,
Wearing long sleeves even in the summer.
"She's so weird!"
"She's such a freak!"
Those whispers they think I can't hear,
Only lead to another evening in my room,
With Nine Inch Nails blaring from the I-pod,
And a scissors in my hand.
You could end this. I could end this,
But neither of us will give in.