When he was 7 years old:
He learned the meaning of hurt. Because he knew his father left those bruises around his mothers neck.
By 10 years old:
The sun didn't shine as bright, and the grass wasn't as green. Everything was dull.
At age 13: he couldn't tell the difference between the nightmares and reality. There were monsters inside of his head.
His 16th birthday:
He counted the scars on his torso, and the pills on his nightstand.
3 years later:
He smiled that crooked smile because he could feel the sun on his skin and the flowers were blooming.
And he made it.
YOU ARE READING
Suicide
RandomThis is a book of poems about self harm and girls and boys that cut themselves. I have had many friends cut themselves so I know how they think.
