Poems. My storys into words.

Not mine btw.

She paints a pretty picture...
But her picture has a twist...
Her paintbrush is a razor,
Her canvas is her wrist...
How is that pretty? How is it something you rhyme into poetry? Why are you romanticizing that? It's not pretty. You want to know what it's really like? It's hating yourself beyond what you think is possible. It's shaking in the middle of class crying because you just want to tear your skin open. It's stealing razors and cutting up your thumbs trying to break them apart. It's blood. So much blood. It becomes and addiction like no other, it makes you feel safe and secure while dragging you down to the depths of hell you thought couldn't get any deeper. It's wanting to go deeper and deeper but not having the courage to and you hate yourself for it. It's saying hello to a new wardrobe and goodbye to social life. Do you like tank tops? Not anymore. Do you like shorts? Well too bad. Do like swimming? Well sucks for you. It's the constant fear of getting caught and the troubling thoughts of suicide. But this was supposed to be pretty right? It wasn't supposed to be like this... But that's how it is and how it always will be.
(G.S)

This is one of my bestfriends poems.
Follow her on here ( imheredontforgetme )