I usta be happy and joyful, a while ago.
I usta have friends a keep them, many years back
Why am I like this now? You might ask. One reason, there is no point.
What good will come out of being happy? Nothing.
What good will come out of being depressed? Suicide.
When I was alive, my arms where covered in cuts, my legs would bleed out every night, my hips where scared to fuck.
There's just something relaxing about having a blade in your hand and slicing away at your skin, the rush of the pain, how the blood feels trickling down your skin and dripping onto the floor.
I never had enough time to make friends at school anyway, my family was always moving around, every year or so we would move houses and change schools, I was always the new kid, after the first few moves I was then know as the new kid with cuts down her arm, the kid who never joined in on P.E, the kid who never showed her arms for the rest of the world to judge.
If my arms was to show once and a while, people would just stair, they would never ask, no one would want to be seen talking to the girl with the messed up life. No one would question me, some would assume I was doing it for attention, some would say I belong in a mental home, all of them would think I'm crazy, well I was crazy.
