He took that blade with him to his room, as he turned off the lights he took it to his own skin, he sits in silence, as the blade tears open his skin, he begins to rock back and forth as he grows numb to the pain, he doesn't know what to think, or what to feel, he'd rather be dead then breathing in this world, he has always felt like a mistake, he thought nobody cared, one cut just isn't enough, so he begins making more all the way down his arm, the blood is his comfort, the blade is his friend, he repeats those words his brother has said, faggot, idiot, nasty, gay, dirtbag, asshole, dick, but he doesn't deserve to be called any of those just because he is different, he was loved once, but not by someone he wanted, little did people know he was raped at the age of six, he didn't feel comfortable with a group of men, he didn't fit in dating girls, he was always used to those late nights when his father would come in and tell him to be quite, he couldn't react he didn't know how, by the age of 12 he was cutting and almost took his life eight times, by the age of 16 he wanted to take his last breath and breakaway from the pain and these secrets he has kept.
