I love to tell stories of how wonderful my life is when all I am is lies. When all is dark and quiet I take out my pen and write true stories of pain loss and hate for my self, but my stories have a twist they're written on my wrists with a pen that is a blade. Yeah my stories cut deep because they're made by blood and hate from others and myself. No one reads these unless they know where to look the wrists the thighs shoulders, for too perfect scars hidden under sleeves or bangles. I'm sorry if you know this pain I've felt it and still do.
