One more day.

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Knives, pins, razors and blades,
The sadness feels like a never-ending maze.
I dress like them,
Act like them,
Sit with them,
And even talk to them.
I am not happy with who I used to be, nor am I happy or content with whom I'm pretending to be.
I constantly look at the mirror,
Wondering what they see wrong in me,
And I continuously cry and beg, hoping someone would hear my plea.
I also tend to give up, holding the knife beside my throat,
However, I always end up telling myself "I'll just suffer one more day".

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