I always smile. Everyone thinks that I can't be hurt, and that I always think the insults thrown at me are no big deal. It's not like getting pushed around matters anyway.
It started when I was ten. I was in the fifth grade, and most people didn't care about me. I hate talking about myself.
Anyways, I grabbed a knife out of my kitchen drawer and headed to the upstairs bathroom. I saw other people cut themselves, to take the pain away. I turned the faucet on and the fan so no one heard me.
I had no more tears left. So I made my skin cry blood.
YOU ARE READING
Needs Mental Help
RandomSuicidal thoughts come to mind. Constantly. They won't go away. Where's my blade....
