I am sitting alone in a locked cubicle trying not to make a sound. They cannot know that I am here. They just can't. I draw a blunt pin across my arms, hoping, wishing for something. Anything... Nothing. Not even the full sting I have grown accustomed to. They will be angry if they find me here, with pale red lines streaking my skin, atop a canvas of my previous artwork. The last time they caught me, they took away my scissors. They will not have my pin too. It is mine, and it's shit, but it's all I have at the moment. I make another furious stroke. I know I need to grow up and realise that the world isn't fucking fair but I seem unable to accept the reality of this. The door to the toilets opens and I hear their voices. 'Are you in here?' They call. I keep silent.
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Pointless Curses, Nonsense Verses
DiversosI am a rambler. My tongue is prone to run away with me. Most of the time no one listens to what I say and I don't blame them. I don't think I'd listen to me either. Warning: Some of these may be triggering, with themes such as mental health problems...
