Her wrist was knitted
Blood was oozing
A tear escaped from her eyes
Her lips still has a wry smile.
When she was 15,
She kept asking who she was;
Why did she exist?
What her importance was.
When she was 16,
She still had the same questions.
Scarred by the lies.
Hunted by the whispers.
Befriended with problems,
Pulled down by sadness
Caressed by the darkness
Suffered in the abyss
Dark circles around her eyes
Caused by the sleepless nights
Bloodstains in her bed sheets
'Cause of her knitted wrist.
She was anxious
She was in pain
No one loved her
No one cared
Someone told her to ask for help
So she did even in despair
But she ended up being judged
Being misunderstood where she ended.
You set some standards.
She didn't meet.
You cared for nothing
But her mistakes.
You knew she was dying every day,
But you only laughed at her;
You told her she was insane
You laughed at her 'cause of being too lame.
Then she held a blade and cut her wrist
Until her heart stopped the beat.
Not a suicide but a murder
It was you who killed her－the society.
-Ms. Serable Poet
