Broken Wing

Pink

PINK

Pink is a pretty color

A pretty color it is

But water isn't pretty when its pink,

From the blood pouring from your wrists.

Pink is the color of the scars,

That stretch all over the place.

Pink is the color of your eyes,

When tears stream down your face.

Pink is the color of the pills,

You always seem to use.

Pink is the color of the marks,

Left from being abused.

Pink might seem so innocent,

But its more than just a hue.

Pink is the color of the damage,

The world has done to you.

Why? I don't know, I might have in the beginning. I might have been able to tell you why I cut, I might have had a reason that made sense and was acceptable. When I started I might have had a why.

The whole room is silent. I know what's coming next, the teacher made the call to the office and now I have to say why. The thing is... There is no why.

Relief? No. Cutting does not relieve the pain. It replaces it with a different kind of pain, temporarily, relieving you from the pain you were feeling before. Its partly relief but its so much more.

Distraction? Not quite. You forget about your problems but you know they are there. Its only so much about the distraction.

Control? Nope. You control many things. What you wear, what you say and when, what books you read, what music you like. Yeah you are controlling the pain on the outside because you can't control the pain on the inside, but its more than control.

Numbing? Maybe. You numb the psychological and emotional pain but not the physical pain. After you make that first cut the blade becomes thirsty for your blood and your whole body begs for a new cut then another and another. Its a partial numbing. Its a consuming addiction.

There is no why. I just like every other person in this world wish there was a why. Sadly there isn't. There never will be, that's life. Full of why's, yet no answers. Theirs theories. Thats all they are though, theories. It's not the exact reason. It's just the excuse that has the most acceptance from everyone that doesn't understand.

I feel Dakotas hand squeeze mine tightly and I know I have to leave. My eyes open to see everyone in my english class staring at me. I feel like an exotic being from a far off island as the eyes follow me. It's hard to walk down the hallway surrounded by the barricade of police officers, paramedics, and the counselor. The only Thought that is clear to me right now is that I'm so glad that I took Dakotas poem and read it out saying it was mine. If he had read 'pink' to the class he would be here, walking down to the empty room to be interrogated for answers that don't exist. He would be so scared. He probably is scared. I don't know what will happen. I can be excused back to class after a few questions or, I can be escorted to the mental hospital after a few questions.

The saddest part is, I knew this would happen from the very beginning. Shure it took a whole lot longer but it happened just like I...no WE both knew it would. It could have been avoided. I would have loved for the past five months to have never played out the way they did, but if I went back I would do it all over again.