As she looks down on her scars,
A tear escapes.
She has always wondered,
'Is this my fate?"
To have her wrist as a canvas,
And a razor her paintbrush?
To used to have dreams,
Only for them to be crushed?
People look at her scars
And their eyes fill with hate.
Yet, they still believe the fake smile
She puts on her face.
But as the razor slides across her skin,
And the blood seeps out,
Her thoughts are suddenly
Overwhelmed with doubt.
What if she never did it
And her wrists were clear?
Instead of picking up that razor,
She would of just wiped away her tears?
Would she be happy and throw
Her long sleeves away?
And along with those,
Her razor blades?
She runs her fingers over
The scarred surface.
All she ever wanted
Was to be perfect.
To wear a real smile,
And her wrists to be clean.
She wouldn't have to worry
About her scars being seen.
She watches as the blood
Gets washed away.
She wishes she never
Picked up that blade.
She joins her hands together,
And sends out a prayer.
She is hoping that at least
One person cares.
As she laid in her bed,
A smile reached her face.
This one wasn't like the others,
It was real, not fake.
Her prayer had been answered,
She no longer felt pain.
And that was the last day,
She picked up her razor blade.
