(Tw)
My scars. My scars have faded as quickly as they were cut. But yet my mind is still stuck. Stuck on the past. I sit at my desk scissors in hand wondering how long this will last. My scissors. Oh the scissors I use for my sick relief. They beg to cut this blank canvas. This blank canvas of were the scars of my past use to lay. The canvas I shut away from the world. Not to be seen by the human eye. As I sit here I see a young girl, a young girl in a hoodie 2 sizes to big. The sleeves dangle, hiding the secret that I kept. 3 years. 3 years no help. 3 years I did not yell. 3 years I suffered in silence whilst you moved on! 3 years of endless tears. 3 years of my will I wrote down Incase the scissors I held went to deep. On my wall I wrote 15. At the age of eight I wrote 15. That'd when I thought I would dead. Now I sit here. My sister nearly 8. I'm scared she'll face the Same fate. So I will stand by her strong. I will try with her to get along. But in my drawer will forever lay. The scissors.
